#so he can curl into his body and hurt his achilles even more when he whines abt ppl being mean to him on twitter

[jrueships]

that popular girl u just graduated highschool with, who got immediately impregnated by some man who works at a trucking company, posting her soon-to-transition into Facebook Instagram photos of her family of 10 meanwhile ure sitting eating noodles somewhere

[awearywritersworld]

there can be no covenants between men and lions

ryomen sukuna x reader summary: sukuna would rather contemplate your murder than come to terms with his feelings for you, but you call him out on his bullshit. w/c: 3k tags/warnings: enemies to lovers. angst to fluff. aged up!yuuji. heavy kissing. features yuuji x reader and he is, of course, best boy. cursing. sukuna decides he wants to kill you (so obviously there are mentions of murder and such) but cant even stand the sight of you upset, what a goof. i'd once again like to think sukuna's not too ooc in this but im still more than likely delusional. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: i was so touched by all of the love that part one received, i wanted to try my hand at part two. i hope i've done it justice! just as part one references homer's the odyssey, this references homer's the illiad because sukuna is very hot and well read. achilles, the protagonist of the novel, is discussed. i'm definitely open to writing a part three, because this one is much heavier on the angst and i miss soft sukuna from part one. series masterlist // masterlist

you and yuuji rarely argue, but when you do, it's often over his aversion toward seriousness, even when a situation calls for it. though you really should have kept your mouth shut, because in this moment, you'd give anything to see his typical carefree expression.

his eyes are regarding you intently, taking in your flustered appearance with knitted brows.

"yuuji..." you trail off, wracking your brain for an explanation of your current predicament.

despite the fact he regained control of his body only moments ago, one of his hands is curled around the back of your neck, while the other is resting on your hip.

"baby, what happened?" he presses, the tone of his voice entirely unreadable.

"s-sukuna," is all you can manage to choke out.

his eyes darken immediately, his jaw tensing in a way that intimidates you. "he hurt you."

you really can't tell if it's a question or a statement, and your response comes a little too quickly. "no! that's not... no."

the next few seconds tick by in a slow sort of agony, heat creeping up your cheeks.

he notices for the first time that his head is eerily quiet. no snide remarks, no scathing commentary. just his own thoughts as he pieces together the situation.

his gaze drops to the angry, red marks littering your neck and you watch in helpless horror as understanding passes his features.

"oh."

the word hangs in the air as you await his reaction, fully anticipating disgust and betrayal. you're positive it's only a matter of time before he throws you out of the apartment and tells you to never come back.

what you don't expect, however, is the way his shoulders relax as the tension leaves his face.

he straightens himself, arms falling to his sides, but he doesn't put any distance between your bodies.

"how long have you...?" he's not quite sure how to phrase the question.

"a few months. this was the first time anything... um... happened. we usually just talk."

he tilts his head to the side, so you clarify. "after you've fallen asleep."

mulling over the information, he hums in response, looking thoughtful for a few more seconds. then, his usual demeanor is back and he grabs your hand. "wanna get dinner? i'm starving!"

he tugs you a few feet toward the door before you come to your senses. "woah, woah. wait a second, yu."

when he looks back at you expectantly, you find that his face holds not one hint of bitterness or judgement. "aren't you angry?"

you're amazed to find that he's the one looking sheepish.

"how could i be? it's not exactly easy to be with me when i have a thousand year old curse rattling around in my body, but you stay anyway," he expresses, making your heart soften. "i just want you to be safe, so i'll take whatever relationship the two of have now over him being a threat to you."

as your hands reach up to cradle his face and your eyes sparkle with adoration, you briefly wonder how you ever found such a sweet man. he places a quick kiss to your lips, the smile on his face easy going as ever. "sooooo, i'm thinking takoyaki or maybe udon—"

"we can get whatever you want," you glance at the spatters of blood across his chest left there from the mission, no doubt from sukuna's careless slaughter. "as long as you go wash up first."

"right!" he agrees quickly, bounding off to the bathroom.

you stand alone in the middle of your living room, left with the ghost of both yuuji and sukuna's lips against yours and a sense of bewildered excitement.

back in his prison, however, sukuna is furious with himself. he should have let you die that day he kept you from being run over. better yet, he should have killed you with his own hands before the brat won back control of his body.

he is a terrible being that delights in carnage, a fact that's well known even centuries later. so why, when he could have done anything in the world, did he go to you? you even asked that same question before you—

he rejects the memory of you pressing your lips to his disdainfully.

your foolishness and your naivete are revolting. your softness and your pliancy are nauseating.

he shouldn't have been anywhere near you, if not to rip your obnoxious heart from your chest like he'd always planned. it was a situation he'd dreamt about and now it's slipped through his fingers, even though those same fingers had graced your fragile little neck.

you were nothing more than a clueless mouse in the jaws of a snake, and though the pains of hunger have been tearing at its stomach for years now, the serpent let itself starve.

sukuna retreats to his domain, fingers prodding at his temples irritably. he allows himself to wallow for a few hours, shutting out both you and the brat.

then, steeling his resolve, he begins to watch and wait like the predator he knows himself to be.

lulled into a false sense of security regarding your safety, it's clear that yuuji has let his guard down. just barely so, but enough that sukuna can see a few weaknesses in his chains. ironic seeing that, now more than ever, the king of curses wants you dead.

it goes without saying that he promptly ceases his nightly interactions with you. it's beneath him, wasting his time with a human. he knows that now.

but while he may not speak to you, he cannot refrain from stealing glances as the days stretch on. you're usually reading, completely oblivious to his watchful eye. he convinces himself it's simply to keep tabs on you, as he's deemed you his foremost enemy.

he's not sure how much time has passed when you begin calling out for him in hushed whispers after yuuji falls asleep, the hurt and confusion in your voice plain to him. it's irksome, and evidently, you're incapable of taking a hint.

his silence becomes more painful with each turn of the moon. you're a bit mortified to find that you genuinely miss him, so you just want answers. did he finally realize that you're nothing special, not worth bothering with?

eventually, growing restless, you all but beg him. "sukuna, please. talk to me. what happened? what'd i do wrong?" his chest tightens with what he believes is vexation. "you can't just make me like you and then disappear. you can't kiss me like that and then—"

"you insolent, maddening little creature!" his eye flies open just in time to see you gasp, your body jerking away from him. "shut up already! can't you see i want nothing to do with you? don't you tire of being pathetic?"

you don't dignify him with a response, swallowing thickly and turning away from him.

finally, he thinks, some fucking quiet. though if he's gotten what he wanted, why does his chest still ache?

he stares at the back of your form until the sun rises.

sukuna is no simpleton. he can be patient when he is sure of a reward, but he's thrilled that the perfect opportunity arises just two days after your encounter.

yuuji is exhausted. gojo kept him out all last night, despite the grueling mission he had today, and when he all but stumbles through your apartment door, the moon is already high in the sky.

you never mention the change in your relationship with sukuna to yuuji. even though he was so understanding, you still feel a touch awkward discussing it further. and maybe in the back of your mind, you're holding out hope that it might go back to the way it was.

sukuna watches through yuuji's eyes when you greet him, your expression half concern and half 'i told you so'. nights out with gojo usually lead to this very situation.

he showers while you finish cooking dinner and once you both eat, he helps you clean up despite his exhaustion. after whispering his thanks and pressing a kiss to your temple, he retires to bed.

you promise you'll join him soon, but sukuna knows it probably isn't true. following his outburst, you've taken to staying in the living room until you're ready to sleep.

yuuji's out before his head hits the pillow and nearly two hours later, you're still not in bed. sukuna's eager, but waits until he's sure the brat's deep in his slumber before he tries to take over. it's relatively easy, and he pushes down yuuji's unconscious mind as far as he can before rising to his feet.

this is finally it. he stretches his limbs lazily, a dangerous smirk settling on his lips. the floor creaks with each step he takes, but he pays no mind to stealth. you're no match for him.

tonight, you'll be his first victim of many and the thought of making up for his past misjudgement has him giddy with excitement.

but the sight that greets him upon exiting the bedroom— you curled into yourself on the couch, your shoulders shaking with quiet sobs— it stops him in his tracks.

he wants to move, more than anything, so what the fuck is wrong with him? is the brat taking over already?

and why is that uncomfortable sensation making it's home in the center of his chest once more?

when you notice his presence, your face shifts to him and reveals your wide, teary eyes. it's clear you're surprised by his appearance, but you quickly bury your face in your knees.

you just want him to leave you alone. you hate him for what he said, for what he did. he forced his way into your life, made you care about him, and then he just vanished. he's cruel and you feel like an idiot because you should have known that from the beginning. or maybe you did and he just made you forget.

"go away. i.. i don't want to see you."

he's disbelieving, for a brief moment, that here you are giving him orders while he stands in the doorway with the intention of taking your life.

he moves toward you, invading your space in a way that is meant to be intimidating, but when you look up at him, every emotion ranging from sadness to rejection to indignation is etched into your features. though the terror he hoped to inspire is noticeably absent.

"i said go away!" you swiftly stand up, your hands meeting squarely with his chest as you push him with every ounce of power you have.

you may as well have shoved a brick wall, as he doesn't move even a fraction of an inch. he seizes one of your wrists anyway.

"what is it you think you're doing, exactly?" he spits.

"let go of me!" you beat against his chest with the hand he left free until his fingers wrap around that wrist too.

"enough."

he's certain there isn't a being that has attacked him (if he can even call that an attack) and lived to speak of it, not once in an entire millennia.

so just end the insolent brat and be done with it, he urges himself.

but he can't and he doesn't understand why, so he just stares down at you.

"what the fuck do you want?" you mean for it to come out forcefully and full of spite, but your voice cracks before you can finish.

an excellent question, indeed. what does he want?

he doesn't answer you and it's so goddamn frustrating that you begin to cry again, rambling to fill the discomforting silence. "you've already told me i'm pitiful and annoying. it's clear you think my company is insufferable, that i'm undesirable—"

that ache in his chest is unbearable now. it claws at his ribcage and shreds the flesh of his heart. it makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and rings shrilly in his ears. he can't even hear you anymore, but he can still see the tears sliding down your cheeks and the way you gasp between words.

the truth of the matter crashes down on him and the devastating weight of it is so crushing it squeezes the air from his lungs.

that feeling in his chest isn't annoyance or repugnance. its anguish— the kind that rattles his bones and leaves him sick with regret.

it's because you're in pain, and worse yet, he is the cause of it.

sukuna pushes you back against the wall before you can comprehend what's happening. his hands find either side of your face and you're alarmed to find that he looks... frightened.

"what are you doing to me?" he pleads for an explanation, because he sure as hell doesn't have one.

how can one little human hold such power over him? it's unnatural. it defies all logic and reason.

you stare at him, open mouthed. his face is so close that his breath fans across your skin and it makes you feel dizzy.

"what are you talking about?" you finally ask.

"you should be dead right now," he frets, despair seeping into every word. "it should be easy."

it dawns on you that you should probably feel afraid, but you just don't. his touch is firm, but careful. and there's no malice to be found behind his eyes. "you're not making any sense."

he thinks back on the time you've spent together, trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here— him at your mercy, rather than you at his. he remembers the first time he made you laugh and considers that it may have been the beginning of his unraveling. for the following two weeks, you both discussed homer at length as you made your way through his poetry.

"there can be no covenants between men and lions. wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other through and through." you blink at him, recognizing at once that he's quoting the illiad. his voice is low and unsteady in a way that suggests desperation. it makes you shiver. "therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall."

your eyes narrow as you begin to understand his his internal struggle, though you're unsure if he's attempting to reason with you or with himself.

"you quote achilles, and rightfully so i suppose, given your common qualities— exasperating pride and a penchant for meaningless violence." he looks relieved, like your seeming agreement eases his mind. it's short lived. "but you forget his passion."

his gaze shifts away from you, his hands withdrawing from your face.

"his passion?" he repeats as if it's the most incredulous thing he's ever heard.

"by the end of the story, is he not acquainted with regret, sympathy, and respect? he doesn't remain blind to the error of his ways forever."

"only a foolish human could make such fanciful deductions," he chides through gritted teeth, still refusing to meet your eye.

you actually laugh at him. "perhaps you shouldn't call upon achilles to make your point after all. at least he grows out of his utterly childish view of the world."

"how dare you?" he demands, his features growing wild as one hand finds your throat (his touch not nearly harsh enough to cause you any discomfort), the other colliding with the wall beside your head. his display doesn't fool you though. "you witless, wretched brat! you're nothing more than a blip in a universe you cannot even begin to understand. you sicken me."

you throw achilles' words in his face just as easily as he did to you. "hateful to me as the gates of hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another."

his gaze hardens, and for a split second, you think you may have been mistaken in your fearlessness, but then his fingers thread themselves through your hair and he pulls your lips to his.

it's rough and commanding, and he tells himself it's only to get you to shut up. to wipe that expression of smug pity from your face.

it's not because, despite the fact you know how awful he is, you're convinced there's something salvageable in him too. nor is it because you tyrannize his every passing thought. and it's certainly not because the feeling of you pressed against him brings him more satisfaction than ripping the hearts from the chests of a hundred men.

ultimately, his denial is overshadowed by his desire. your touch is nothing short of needy as you tug at his shirt, an attempt to bring him even closer, and god does he hope that means you feel just as desperate as he does. he deserves at least a little consolation.

as his hands roam every valley and curve of your body, he deems it unfair that a being whose very existence spells hell on earth should be so taken with such a devastatingly divine creature.

"i've wanted you so terribly," he mumbles against your mouth before he can stop himself.

"then fuck you for making us both wait," you breath out.

his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips in response and his lips shift to your neck. "watch that pretty little mouth of yours, brat."

he nips at the spot just below your ear hard enough that it makes you gasp, doubtless a punishment for your impudence. you recover quickly though, wasting no time with your flippant reply. "or what? you'll go back to plotting my murder?"

he pulls away from you abruptly, sighing deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. "you truly have zero sense of self preservation, don't you?"

"guess so," you shrug, smiling at him bashfully. "can we watch a movie? i'll even let you pick."

you ask as if it's the most normal request in the world. as if he isn't a thousand year old curse that would be off turning the city to ash were he not here with you instead.

he rolls his eyes, scoffing at the ridiculousness of it all. "fine."

[modelbus]

I've been in the worst writing slump... so I've defaulted to Kaz Brekker (oops). This didn't get as far as I wanted it to, but it's about 2k words!

Be warned: This contains death (murder), kidnapping, violence, skin trading, mentioned sex work, human trafficking (called "the skin trade" in here), weaponry, and I think that's it!

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Gn!Reader

Tricked Target

Time is as good as the kruge in your pockets in the Barrel. You know this well, considering you have little of both; money and time. Or perhaps you have too much time. It simply depends on how one sees it, you suppose.

Someone might take you pouring over papers on a desk as a waste of time. See the mahogany wood, stained dark, and curl their lips as the sheer money it must've taken to buy.

Someone else might realize this isn't your office, isn't your desk, and keep their mouth shut.

Tonight, that happens to be an unfortunate man named Zade Oren. Tied in his leather chair, black ropes expertly woven, a gag stuffed in his mouth, and both Achilles slashed for good measure, he learned his lesson.

Don't piss you off.

And although he isn't technically keeping his mouth shut of his own free will, it still technically counts. You give him the slightest of glances, just enough to monitor the tears dripping down his face from wide eyes, before returning to the papers you're rifling through.

"This would be easier if you had just cooperated." You muse aloud, flicking through a ledger before abandoning it. "But you guys never do."

He makes a pathetic sort of whimpering that makes you grin.

You aren't a bad person. After all, you only enjoy the blood on your hands when it's from the right person. The type of person you have at your mercy right now, for example. If anything, you're as close to good as it gets in the barrel. A type of vigilante, rather than one of the profit-seeking groups.

Dime Lions, Black Tips, Razorgulls, The Liddies, Harley's Pointers. Now those are some bad organizations. You're still on the fence about The Dregs; you've seen them do as much good as they have bad. Mostly due to the smaller organization within them. Or maybe the Crows aren't part of the Dregs anymore; you don't care. They're not of interest to you.

"Ah. Here we go." You hum, finding a record of a transaction. Zade gives a feeble cry. Useless, these men who beg for their lives. As if you'll ever give them back.

The transaction seems harmless enough. Four pearls for a sum of money. A sum far too large to be worth even some really fucking nice pearls. And, most importantly, names of the buyer and seller. Your eyes ghost over Zade's name as the buyer, focusing on the seller's name instead.

Then, you crumple up the paper and stuffs it in your pocket.

Pearls. What a stupid code name. The sellers determine it, and they're never very creative with code names. Always something valuable, never something believable.

All it takes is one person (you, in this case) to see what it really means.

Kids.

"I should be going, I think." You finally say, straightening. "Don't worry, don't worry. No more people need to get hurt anymore."

Zade slumps in relief, and you let a wicked grin stretch over your face.

"Oh, no, you've misunderstood. No people will be harmed by me tonight. But you're not really a person, are you?" Your head tilts, watching the panic wash over his features.

Like a cat toying with a mouse, you are. It's just so amusing though, to witness the fear. To let them experience what they've instilled in so many others. That despair? It's precious.

Your knife is sinking into his chest before he can protest any more. Pushing past the hard bone, sinking into his heart with a sick squelch. By the time you pull it out, he's already dead.

"Fool." You sigh, leaving him there and striding over to the window. Let his guards find him later, you don't care.

And when you hoist yourself out the window, scaling onto the roof, the office is almost as you found it. Only his dead body and a note to proclaim the kill as justified.

It reads the same as always: Hurt a kid and I'll hurt you next.

The Avenger is the name people like to call you. Or the rumors of you. Most of Ketterdam has the wrong ideas about you, but you aren't fixing to correct them. False assumptions only make your job far easier.

Honestly, you'd rather be called a protector. But avenger works just as fine. It gets the point across.

A shiver runs up your spine when you're standing on the rooftop, but a cursory glance around shows nobody. You didn't expect it to, but still. The feeling of eyes following you has only gotten stronger recently, but seeing as nobody has attempted to kill you yet you assume it's fine.

Some people are just too curious for their own good and like being spies. As long as they aren't fucking up your plans, you really don't care. Honestly. The feeling of eyes is perfectly fine with you.

"You could say hi. I don't bite." You murmur into the still air, but to no avail.

The feeling doesn't leave as you head back to your home, a dingy apartment near a lot of the gambling dens. It's rented from a landlord who couldn't give less of a shit—she's never met the guy—which was perfect for you. And the place was cheap, which was a big bonus. Not that you were hurting for money, because you had no problems about stealing from those you killed, but you preferred to use it for better things.

Like buying new knives.

Dropping back down to the alleys, your feet hit the cobbles without a single sound. Subtlety was an art form, one everyone had to perfect in the barrel. Unless they were rich enough to get away without it, but you were not. Sadly.

There's footsteps behind her, and you turn to glare at the stranger. Give them a silent warning to mind their own fucking business.

Luck is not on your side today though, because they lunge at you with outstretched hands and a knife. You dodge, slamming your body into a wall to avoid the attack, hands scrambling for your own daggers.

The attacker is big, an ugly snarl stretched out across his mug, a beard covering half his face. Professional, if you had to guess, and definitely after you. Oh, joy.

This time, you don't give him the opening he wants. You dart forward, metal gleaming, knowing that the only way to walk away is to remove the obstacle in your path. In other words: kill him.

You both scramble, your knife digging into his forearm due to a nicely executed move on his part, but you abandon it in his arm to stab at him with another. A hand on your arm, metal meeting metal, it's a raw fight. Evenly matched.

But you must be off, must be mentally occupied, because you don't hear the footsteps behind you until it's too late. It's not until something slams into your head, sending you staggering with black spots, do you realize someone else is here.

"And that's meant to be the Avenger?" The person behind you scoffs.

"They put up a pretty good fight before you came in." Burly guy answers, stepping toward you.

His shoes are the last thing you see before your eyes roll back.

-

There's a hood over your head.

When you blinks your eyes open, you're met with complete and utter darkness. Although you want to panic—desperately—you don't. You can feel the ropes tying you to some type of chair, your wrists pulled together behind the back of it and your ankles tied to the legs of the chair.

Panicking now wouldn't do anything for you, so you just sit in silence.

But you're frustrated. So frustrated that you let your guard drop, that you've gotten yourself into this situation. You refuse to be another Mar, refuses to be the second Avenger that befalls the fate they tried to prevent.

"Makes sense now why he's wanting 'em." Someone is saying, and you try to subtly tilt your head to listen in. "He's always collecting 'em dangerous skinny ones."

"Putting together his own little menagerie." A second voice joins in, laughing.

The words have you tensing, against all instincts. Are they selling you to the menagerie?

Everyone knows what the menagerie is. Girls, tricked into sex work—and sometimes men—and people all too willing to take advantage of them. One of the things you worked against, and, subsequently, one of your worst nightmares.

"Serves this one right. Sardonic, isn't it?"

"You mean ironic?"

"What the difference?"

Oh, saints. You haven't just been kidnapped, but you've been kidnapped by idiots.

"Both of you stop. He'll be here soon." And that's a third voice. Only two people grabbed you, and you're willing to bet this third is the boss.

You don't recognize the voice, but you haven't exactly heard the voices of many people that are high in the chain in the Barrel. Not unless it's them begging for life, and you never hear from them again after.

But now you know for certain that they won't be sending you to the actual menagerie at least. The double confirmation is nice, even if the unknown is a whole other worry.

A door opens somewhere, and there's an abrupt rush of footsteps.

"You're early!" Probably boss guy shouts way too loudly. "The Avenger is all ready for you, but still knocked out."

"How long ago did you grab them?" Oh, that's a new voice. Faintly familiar, although you can't tell from where.

It's been a long time since you've felt so helpless. Like things were out of your carefully measured control. Not since you came home to an empty apartment, a person missing from it.

"A few hours." Probably boss answers. You don't need your eyes to know he's leering at you.

"...and how hard did you hit? Saints."

"They're alive, ain't they? Pay up."

"How much did we agree on again?" A cool voice asks, and your head jerks up. You know that voice, you've stalked the owner of that voice.

Kaz Brekker.

"Oh, look at that. It lives." Probably boss laughs cruelly, and you attempt a glare at him through the hood. "And you know how much we agreed on. Hand it over, Brekker."

And there's your confirmation. Your didn't just imagine it; Kaz Brekker is buying you. Why? You've never interfered with his dealings. In fact, after confirming he isn't into the skin deal, you actively stayed out of his business. You definitely didn't need more enemies than you already have.

The sound of Kruge being exchanged, followed by gleeful exclamations, makes you grit your teeth. If Brekker wants a shot at you, he'll have to do a lot more than pay some money.

"Get out." Brekker says after a moment, cutting the guys who kidnapped you off.

"This is our-"

"Get. Out."

Nobody makes him repeat it a third time, as is evidenced by the sound of footsteps fading away.

He's bossy, but he has the power to be. The cool indifference in his tone, the brilliant business plays he's made. Scrappy, like you, but far more powerful. There's a raw hunger in him you don't have; that nobody but him has.

It's scary as hell.

"Untie them."

There's movement around you, and then the hood is yanked off. You squint, blinking a few times, before focusing on the irritatingly put-together man in front of you. Although looking roughly the same age as you, the Barrel makes anyone be adults far too fast.

Brekker stares down at you, gloved hands clasped onto his cane. Behind him, a Suli girl hovers. Inej, his wraith. A spy, as far as anyone knows. Not an assassin. So that means whoever is working on untying you is Jesper.

"You're in quite the situation." He notes dully, but there's a wicked gleam in his eyes.

It only makes you glare harder. "Thanks, I'm aware."

The rope around your wrists falls away and you bring your hands to your lap, but don't move to untie your ankles. There's a sharpshooter behind you and a girl with knives in front of you; You aren't completely stupid. And that's not to mention the damage you know Brekker can do too.

"I have a deal for you." Brekker says after a moment, taking a step forward. He switches his crow-headed cane to his left hand, holding out his right for a handshake.

You don't take it. "What's the deal?"

"I don't think you're in a position to be asking questions."

"What's. The. Deal?"

"Perhaps I didn't make it clear. Take the deal right now, or we'll dump your body in the harbor to drown."

Well. That's not a lot of options. Everyone knows to negotiate all terms of a deal before accepting, but what choice do you have? He's brilliant for this move, and you hate him for it. Saving your life, buying you, just to force you into a deal to live.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, reason why this is such a horrible idea, you're shaking his hand. 

"Screw you." You spit out, life-saving be damned. Your grip tightens, just to spite him. Although his lips tug down, he doesn't pull away.

His reply is passive.

"Welcome to the crows."

[andromedaexists]

Character Personality Tag Game

Rules: List 3 personality traits of your character(s) and (optionally) share 3 snippets that correspond to and display each of those personality traits! Tag however many people you'd like!

Because I have a handful of characters, I will only answer this for Icarus and Kit (the respective main characters for each WIP being entered into the event). If you want to see other characters, feel free to drop an ask for them!

Icarus

easy to trust

Even as the logical part of his brain is telling him that he needs to keep his distance from this new variable in his life, he can’t help but want to run into them again. If he can get a feel for them and whether he can trust them, he would be set. After all, the hardest part of his plan is doing it alone. He is going to need someone there to be his rational thought, to stop him from doing anything too out of the box. He is going to need someone who made sure that he comes back in one piece. Even though he was trying to forget the boy in his nightmare, Icarus still made him a promise to stay alive. And he is going to need someone to keep him accountable with that.

enjoys inflicting pain (this one is long so i'm putting a cut in here, also mildly sexual)

He glared up at the body hovering over him. This is the exact opposite of what he wanted. “’m not talkin’ ‘bout it, ‘specially not with you,” he mumbled, turning his head to stare out the window. He felt as the blonde sighed, leaning in as his hot breath tickled Icarus’ neck as he asked, “What do you mean, ‘especially not with me’?” Icarus wasn’t going to answer. He didn’t feel like dredging up the past on his own, let alone with the person who was there. He shook his head slightly, busying himself with the hoops in his lip. Unsatisfied with that answer, Apollon rearranged his grip on Icarus’ wrists. He could feel as one hand moved to hold both wrists before the other hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to look into beautiful golden eyes. Eyes that were searching for an answer that he wasn’t sure he was ready to give. No, he was sure that he wasn’t ready. But, that made it all the more interesting for him to knock the blonde off his pedestal with the truth. Icarus could practically feel the mask of indifference slide on his face as he steeled his gaze. “What do you think?” he asked, lip curling into a snarl. “What do you genuinely think, Apollon? That my nightmare, my recurring nightmare, was about some fuck off that means nothing to me?” He leaned forward, bringing his face mere millimeters away from Apollon’s. He wanted to see every twitch of reaction on his face when the truth was laid bare, he wanted to see the hurt cross those beautiful golden eyes when he said, “No, it's your face I see every night when I sleep.” And oh, did he get what he wanted. Something tugged deep in Icarus’ heart as he saw waves of realization wash over Apollon’s face. At first there was confusion, mouth tugging into a frown as his eyebrows pinched together. And finally, Icarus watched as sheer horror took root. The hopelessness that he could practically feel the human embodiment of sunshine above him spiraling into filled him with such pleasure as he bit his lip. He tilted his head back against the pillow, opting to take in the delectable view through heavily lidded eyes. Maybe he should do this more often. It had been so long since Icarus had actually felt something in an intimate setting, or truly felt anything other than hatred. But this was so much better. Fuck therapy, all Icarus needed was to see the utter despair in the eyes of the man he loved. He barely contained a low moan when those eyes focused back on him.

perpetually exhausted

When he stepped back into his apartment, he saw papers strewn across the living room. He just stops and thinks that he does not want to deal with this, he just wants to go back to sleep, but Achilles, Thanatos, and Apollon were all poring over the papers. “Okay, what’s goin on in here?” Icarus says as he goes to grab another energy drink. He hadn't had a chance to drink the one he took to the roof. What a waste of a drink.

Kit (i don't have as much material for this, sorry)

good under pressure

Kit watches as the doors close behind the two. He should be leaving, heading down into the catacombs below the church, but he can’t bring himself to move. He had put on a brave face in front of his friends, but now that he is alone he’s faced with his fears. This is it. This is the end of his story. He’s not sure if he’ll make it out of this plan. And that’s okay, it’s okay if he doesn’t make it out. That’s what scares him the most. He is afraid, but not about what could happen to him. He’s afraid of what it means for his friends. Of what will happen to them if he is not successful, whether they will make it out of this unscathed. Kit is not afraid of death.

deeply caring

Kit is not afraid of death. He hasn’t been in a long time. But he knows that his death will be painful for the two people that mean the world to him, and that hurts. He hopes for their sake that he makes it out of the tunnels, that he makes it to see the sunrise. He has to succeed.

unwavering in his faith

For a moment he thinks that he might be too late, that the figure may be long deceased. That is, until the figure moves and Kit comes face to face with the skull he had seen in his dreams. His eyes widen as the figure stands up, going from a huddled mess on the ground to towering above him. They aren’t able to fully stand in the room, instead bending at a painful angle due to the low ceiling. Even as he registers that the being in front of him must be in pain, Kit can not move. He is rooted to the spot, unable to breathe or think as he realizes exactly what he is stood in front of. I am in front of God. Kit feels as if he should be on his knees begging for forgiveness, repenting every sin he has committed in his life. Worship the not-quite-human being standing before him. Revel in their glory, but he can’t.

imma tag @writingpotato07 @flowerprose and @mr-writes!

[fernweh-writes]

How do you think the slashers would react to their s/o just crumbling to the floor because of a severe migraine

My chronic migraines give me plenty of experience with this one. Enjoy luv!

-Fern🌿

Slashers x S/O With Severe Migraines

Michael Myers

Michael would freak out, but of course you would never know that, he’s as expressionless as ever. But he’s worried about you, he’s never seen you in so much pain and he hates not knowing how to help. So when you crumble to the ground with your head in your hands his first instinct is to pick you up.

Does his best to do what you normally do whenever you have a migraine or bad headache. After getting you tucked into bed he closes the blinds remembering how you would throw an arm over your eyes to block out the light. Brings you a glass of water and some pain killers to try and help with the persistent pain.

You won’t have to worry about loud noises being an issue either considering Michael always moves around quietly. It’s a quality of his that normally annoys you since he scares the crap out of you so often but in the moment you’ve never been more grateful that your giant of a boyfriend is so quite.

If the nausea gets to you and you make a run for the bathroom, Michael will disappear. He may care about you but he’s not going to hold your hair back for you or anything. Will show up to carry you back to the bed once more though. Even he won’t leave you lying on the cold floor.

Bo Sinclair

Bo may have experience with extreme hangovers but he doesn’t have any experience with severe migraines. At first, when you begin to complain about the pain he teases you about it. “It can’t be that bad, darlin’, you’re just bein’ dramatic.” He simply doesn’t understand the severity of your migraines, so you can imagine his surprise when you fall to the ground grimacing and taking deep breaths.

He does his best to appear nonchalant but you can still tell he’s panicking. Bo’s not stupid, he knows you have a pretty good pain tolerance and has witnessed it first hand. So he understands that you have to be in some serious pain to just crumble to the ground like that.

Carries you up the stairs to the bedroom and just awkwardly hovers. Eventually he decides to ask Vincent for his help. Bo knows everything there is to know about cars but he’s helpless when it comes to fixing up people.

His best idea is to just lay with you and rub circles onto your skin in a poor attempt to distract you from the pain and discomfort. Keeps asking what he can do to help when really the best thing he could do is stop asking questions and learn to shut up for once in his life. If you snap at him he decides that he can allow it use this once but don’t ever try to again.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent spend most of his time underneath Ambrose in his workshop. So when he finally reappears on the surface only to find you sitting on the kitchen floor with your head in your hands he’s immediately worried and begins to fret over you.

I’m convinced that Vincent actually knows a lot about medicine. His messed up father most definitely left behind a bunch of medical textbooks in his office as well as a few medical journals as well. Reading all of them in his free time has given him a great understanding of anatomy and the human body. How else would he be so good with handling the bodies. He can properly administer a sedative, stitch people up, and accurately slice the Achilles’ tendon, those things aren’t just common knowledge.

This makes Vincent the best equipped slasher to help you through any migraine. He’ll scoop you up and carry you to bed making sure the room stays dark and quite. If you want him to stay with you he will, otherwise he will leave you be and just occasionally pop in to check on you. If Bo comes home shouting Vincent will deal with him immediately.

Memorizes all of your migraine triggers and does his best to help you avoid them. While Vincent has sadistic tendencies he never wants to see you in pain. Especially not in so much pain that you fall to the floor and curl up on yourself like that.

Thomas Hewitt

The Hewitt household is always filled with loud noises and commotion. Whether it be screams, yelling, slamming doors, or the sound of a chainsaw there’s always some type of loud noise. But with so much to be done around the house and your need to carry your own weight, you do your best to push through the pain that begins in your head. But as the pain intensifies and the noises around you just continue to grow louder, you fall to the ground.

When Thomas finds you curled in on yourself he panics. Doing his best to be gentle, he picks you up and does the only thing he knows to do. Setting you down on the kitchen table he pulls Luda Mae over to you. His momma is the only person he can think of to help you out. Sure enough, she’s able to assess your migraine quickly and gets Thomas to carry you up to bed and close the curtains to try and block out the sun.

For once in a long time, the house is quite. There is no yelling, no screaming, and definitely no chainsaw. Luda Mae makes sure to keep Hoyt and Monty quiet while Thomas makes sure to not leave your side. The bodies can be dealt with tomorrow no matter how much crap he gets from Hoyt. Right now, Thomas is focused on making sure that you’re okay and fetches you anything that you need.

Brahms Heelshire

It’s no secret that Brahms watches you all day long. Whether he’s glued to your hip or within the walls, you can always feel his eyes on you and Brahms always finds a way to make his presence known. So when your migraine hits an unbearable point and the world begins to sway, you decide to sit on the middle of the floor.

Seeing you suddenly drop to the ground has Brahms panicking from his spot within the walls. You can hear him move around with loud thunks which only causes you to wince and press your hands to your head in an attempt to block out the noise. His whines of concern when he reach you don’t help either and you snap.

Brahms has never seen you snap at him like that but he’s also never seen you hurt like this so he feels very conflicted. Eventually he reasons that for now he can help you so that you’re no longer in pain. But lashing out at him like that is behavior that can’t go unpunished. So all the while he’s helping you and being on his best behavior he’s thinking of all the ways he can punish you when you feel better.

Billy Loomis

Billy isn’t good at taking care of people, half the time he can’t even do a good job of showing he cares. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s still very protective over you though. So when you crumble to the ground at one of Stu’s parties with tears beginning to form in your eyes he immediately grabs you and carries you to an empty room away fro any people.

When you explain to him that it’s a migraine and all the noise and flashing lights are only making it worse he’s immediately getting you in the car and carrying you home, no complaints. Billy refuses to keep you in a place that’s only going to make you feel worse even if he doesn’t know how to help you get rid of your migraine.

Once you make it home he carries you to bed and hands you water and pain killers. After listening to your instructions to hit the lights he crawls into bed beside you. Even after you manage to fall asleep he’s staying up worrying over you. Billy enjoys seeing people hurt, he’s crazy enough to stab his own best friend with no remorse. Even then, he quickly decides that he never wants to see you hurt and does everything he can to prevent that.

Stu Macher

Stu’s not great with empathy, he does a terrible job of reading the room, and he does a bad job of helping other people most of the time. So seeing you curl up on the ground makes him nervous. He knows you have migraines from time to time but usually you’re able to handle them on you’re own. The most you ever get him to do is fetch you water or Tylenol.

He panics as he helps you up off the ground, not knowing what to do with you. He considers carrying you to bed but decides that the couch is much closer. Pulling a blanket off of the back he drapes it over you, making sure to turn off the TV so it doesn’t bother you.

For the first time in his life Stu manages to be quite. Since he can’t ramble though he finds himself fidgeting around, biting at the skin around his nails. Listening to your small groans and whines of pain make him want to do something, anything. Knowing that all he can do is wait makes him feel helpless and useless.

Stu goes out of his way to help you avoid anything that might trigger your migraines. If you get a sever migraine while out in public he will come pick you up so that you dont’ have to drive yourself home. The two of you can worry about your car later, he’s just worried about making you feel better.

Jesse Cromeans

This man has his own medical staff just on standby at all times. Having any sort of severe or chronic migraines is no problem when you’re with Jesse. One phone call and he can find you the best doctor in the whole country.

Seeing you curl into a ball as you sit on the ground has him calling Spann and telling her to clear his schedule for the rest of the day. You are his top priority, he can handle business another day. Even if it was something important he has a whole team of people that are more than capable of handling the situation for the time being. He’ll make sure that you get some rest knowing that a nap usually helps to eradicate your pain.

If he happens to bring you along to one of his warehouses and end up with a migraine though then he begins to get nervous. You’re more likely to be put in danger there, so he’ll be reluctant to bring you along again. Jesse will have you sit in his lap and anyone that barges in yelling about “business affairs” then he’ll quickly get rid of them.

Black out curtains. He knows that the light streaming through the windows can make your migraines so much worse. So he would make sure to have blackout curtains in your bedroom so that no light can get through and you can rest peacefully. Nothing like a dark and quiet room when your head feels like it’s about to explode.

Asa Emory

If this happens while you’re still trapped in his hotel of horror, then you’re just kind of SOL. Asa has cameras in every room so he most definitely knows that you’re in pain. On the bright side the hotel is pretty dark and quiet so there’s not much that will make your migraine worse. Unless Asa decides to torture you by turning on extra bright lights or causing a scene just for some noise to irritate you.

If you’re still in the hotel, but Asa has grown fond of you then he may show some mercy. Sadly that mercy comes in the form simply knocking you out with any method he deems convenient. Lucky you, you wont be hit upside the head because he knows that would just make things worse.

However, if he’s decided to make you his a little house spouse, then he tends to be more gentle. His house is quiet and the dimly lit bedroom is your safe haven whenever your head starts to hurt. If you fall to the ground he’ll carry you to bed. Making sure to remind you how weak and pathetic you are, you wouldn’t be able to do anything without him to take care of you.

[whaleofatjme1920]

EJ SIMPS RISE 😤😤💪💪💪

may i please request a scenario for yandere ej x fem reader where ej is punishing the reader for escaping ? feel free to go DARK dark with this one <3

Cream Colored Ceiling

[Eyeless Jack X F!Reader]

[Warnings: NSFW - but not for sexual content, just violence, what isn't a warning in this one, mentions of cannibalism (but there is no described cannibalism, just allusions to it), EJ physically harms the reader, amputation, violence of all kinds, throw up, look this is just,,,, it's dark. I repeat, there is no sexual content in here, it's just physically violent]

[AN: yeah. This was uh, yeah.]

Hazy, your mind is hazy. You wake and open your eyes to see that same fucking cream colored ceiling with water damage leaking through the top and dangerously close to your bed, if you’d even want to call it your bed.

You raise one of your hands that feels heavier than stones and wipe quietly at your eyes, dusting them from the sleep. Your body feels heavy, oh so heavy.

You sit up. Nothing strange so far.

Has he really been that gracious with you?

You yawn and stretch, joints and bones popping as you look out the window. There’s that cursed forest. It looks dark, shadowy, misty. The fog is rolling in and you know with it comes the rain. You’re going to be stuck here forever, aren’t you?

The sunlight doesn’t filter through the window, but there’s light regardless. You’re deep into mid Autumn and with it will come winter. It’ll be the third winter you’ve been trapped with this monster.

Your mouth feels dry, much too dry. You smack your lips together a few times, wondering where your saiva has gone and decide to go to the kitchen. It seems like Jack isn’t home right now, which is probably for the best. Alongside him being out, so too is your natural fear of him. You swing your legs over the side of your bed, wondering why you feel so physically exhausted before attempting to stand up.

“Shit!” You cry out as your knees buckle beneath you, your body cascading like a pile of bricks to the floor. Your knees and palms blank onto the hardwood, digging into you most uncomfortably. Tears well in your eyes as you struggle to get off the floor. You continue to curse under your breath as you glance back at your ankles where large surgical wounds lay, covered in stitches and gauze. What the fuck? When did that happen?

Your heart begins to race when you slow, calculated steps padding on the floor. You’re all too familiar with the sound of those combat boots knocking on the floor, pacing back and forth and keeping you awake at all hours of the night. Panic sears itself into your heart as you attempt to get up, pathetically crawling along the floor and reaching for your bedpost.

Jack stands in your doorway, his large form casting a shadow on your throw rug. He tsks, and you can already tell he’s more than disappointed with you. “What did I tell you about getting up?” He asks, voice smooth and clinical, once again padding towards you.

You feel tears well in your eyes as you curl as tightly into a ball as you can.

Jack breathes out with slight disappointment before crouching down and seeing your sorry form. “You knew this was going to happen,” he says, half lidded eyes watching you curiously before he reaches his large, gloved hand out. “Did you pop any of your sutures?” He tilts his head to the side and looks over your swollen, still bloodied ankles. “I think you might’ve.” He reaches to pick you up and you begin to panic, blubbering your apologies.

“I’m sorry, please, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me-” you begin to babble, your remaining strength trying their hardest to push the behemoth away. Tears well in your eyes as Jack grips your calves, sending pain holting like lightning strikes up and down your lower body, making you cry out in pain.

“You deserve it,” he murmurs, his claws pinching into your skin before he lifts you. A glance of annoyance passes over his face before he yanks your grip from the bed.

You struggle against him as you pound your fists into his broad chest, tears of frustration falling down your cheeks.

The tall demon moves without budging. He doesn’t care, you barely feel like a scratch to him.

You watch your surroundings, still fighting against him and feel your heart sink when you realize he’s taking you down the hall that he’s deemed forbidden. The energy you feel from this specific hallway makes you cry out in fear.

Jack eats it up, his own heart beating just a little faster. You won’t ever do what you pulled last night again. He juggles you into one his arms and uses his free hand to unlock the door, the slight beeps of numbers being added into a keypad making your attention shift ever so slightly.

The inside of this room is like a horror scene to you. You see an operating table, and stainless steel tables, cabinets and countertops. There’s a large trash bin filled with bloody gauze and other things, such as discarded clothes, clumps of hair, things you don’t want to think of. Is this it? Is he finally going to kill you?

Fear overtakes your system again and renders you to nothing but silent sobs as Jack pulls off a turquoise colored sheet from the operating table, placing you down.

You try to get off, wiggling and clawing at him. “Let me go!” You cry out like a broken record of a mantra, your eyes wild and feral.

Jack simply shrugs you off, tying large leather brown straps over your waist and your chest, rendering you immobile. “The more you struggle, the more it’s going to hurt you,” he hums, his clawed hands moving across your chest to your wrists. He quickly ties you down there as well, your legs numbly kicking at him through the pain due to severed Achilles tendons. He flicks the wound on your left leg, grinning at your pain. “Won’t be needing these anymore,” he chuckles.

“What?” You say in shock, pupils restricting to the size of pim points.

He takes a seat on his wheeled stool and begins setting you up with an IV drip. “Gonna sedate you, and when you wake up?” He warmly smiles, pricking the vein on your right arm with the needle, making you weakly thrash once more. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pumping some sedatives into your bloodstream.

You feel more tears welling in your eyes as your conscience begins to wean. The world becomes more shapes and colors, merging into brightness and shadows before you finally slip into your dreams.

You haven’t been able to trick Jack like this in the history of well, ever. Almost three years with this nightmare and you’ve finally gained enough of his trust to ask him for some time out.

“Don’t stay in there for too long,” he says, large hand gripping your thigh as you swallow down the feeling of hitting him from where you remain seated in the passenger seat. “I want you back safely,” he murmurs, his other hand gently letting go of the wheel to cup your face.

You do your best to show love and admiration in your eyes as you meet his gaze. “Don’t worry. It’s just an hour or so, okay?” You hum, your hand gently holding his and burying your face deeper into his warmth.

“I don’t know why you need anyone else’s company,” he says, a slight acrid venom seeping into his tone. “You don’t need anyone else but me.” It’s almost cute how offended he sounds.

You play the part of loving him. “I know, I know,” you coo, taking his hand from your face and pressing your lips into a pucker. You raise his hand to them, planting a kiss on his palm. “I love you. I won’t be that long.”

Jack’s heart flutters. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.” He says, watching you as you unbuckle yourself, his hand reluctantly leaving your thigh.

You flash him a warm smile and lean over to press a kiss to his cheek, and then his lips. You try not to spit at the scent of blood and taste of rot before pulling away. You then open up his car, sliding from the passenger seat and to the rinky dink little bar you’d managed to convince him to let you go to. Just an hour - that’s all it was. Just an hour. You’d be in and out, get some drinks, and come straight back to his car.

Due to Jack’s appearance, he had told you he couldn’t go in. They’d know something was wrong with him immediately, and you’d gained enough of his trust for you to be away for just an hour. Come straight back to the car when it reaches 10 PM. You promised him. And he fucking believed you.

It wasn’t that hard finding some idiot down on his luck with the ladies. You cozied up next to him, getting to sit with him at the bar and start talking. He was so attentive and sweet, so receptive to the story you had made up to him.

“That sounds awful,” he says, voice low and sweet. His deep blue eyes look at you with nothing but gentleness and fondness. His hand reaches for yours across the bar and you smile, allowing him to take it.

“I just wanna get away from that brute,” you admit. “I just wanna go home.”

He squeezes you just a little tighter. “Why don’t we go back to my car and call the cops?” He offers.

“Where did you park?” You ask, hoping it’s not in the front lot where Jack remains waiting for you.

“In the back.”

What a relief.

A slight smile blooms on your face as you nod. “Yeah, let’s go,” you finally answer. You hop off the barstool and then grip his hand, letting him lead you through the bar and the sea of people. It smells like sweat, alcohol, and regret - you love it. It smells like the beginning of freedom, something better. Maybe, just maybe…

He opens the backdoor to you, allowing you out first. The crisp night air of autumn greets you with her beauty. You can smell maple leaves and pumpkins out in the distance, the atmosphere is incredible. “That one’s mine,” he says, pointing to his car a little ways down in the parking lot under one of the yellow lights. He continues holding your hand as the two of you walk through the parking lot.

You watch as he unlocks the car door, walking around the side to let you in. You accompany him and slide into the passenger seat. Putting this seat belt on feels almost liberating. You giggle when the short man closes the door before walking around the front of his car.

And then he pauses.

Fear seeps into his eyes and leans forward, his abdomen cutting into the hood of the hunk of metal that can barely be called a car before sweat beads and rolls down his forehead. He begins to cough, violently.

Your eyes widen in shock as he begins to cough up blood, and tears well in his eyes. They roll down his cheeks, fat and crystalline like the beads of sweat. He reaches out to you, mouthing for you to run before finally slumping forwards.

You see him, the behemoth that’s held you captive for three years, a sapphire colored mask boring into your soul and searing into your mind with what you can understand is pure, unadulterated rage. You scramble, panicking as you notice the large blade that’s wedged itself into the man’s back as he seizes on the car, his thick body rolling off from the hood and landing with a large ‘thump!’ as he does so. Foam and the smell of something unpleasant wafts upwards and you palm the handle of the car, attempting to release yourself.

Jack takes slow, calculated steps forwards, his shadow growing larger as he gears up to catch you and claim you as his.

Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, the panic overtaking your system as you finally get the car open. You shoot out of the metal cage like a bat from hell and stumble onto the asphalt, hissing as the black tar digs into your knees and palms. No time for registering your pain, you need to run! Like a freshly born faun, you hobble up and begin to run, wondering if you can make it back to the bar and the safety of other people when Jack’s steps grow quicker.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’s going to catch you and he’s going to kill you!

“You’re such a stupid little rabbit,” he hums, watching as you sorely sprint towards the door. “Look what you’ve done,” he taunts, hand gesturing to the man. “You made me kill him and I’m not even hungry,” he hums. “Maybe I should make you eat it instead,” he muses.

The thought alone makes your stomach retch. You stumble once more, body feeling violently ill as you cave. The alcohol paired with his words has you emptying your stomach of its contents that splash to the asphalt, the sickly acrid and saccharine taste overtaking your mouth.

Jack’s giant form finally overtakes you. He stands with his hands behind his back, peering down at you with disdain. “Fucking disgusting,” he coos in a tone that reminds you of a condescending father. He grips the back of your neck and forces you down.

You screech and fight him, not wanting to touch what came out of you.

“No? No,” he grins. “Fine. Let’s go see your date.” His claws dig into your neck as he drags you back to the man’s car where he’s finally gone still. He’s left a puddle of blood. Jack laughs quietly at your struggling before forcing you to your knees. “Are you hungry?”

“No-”

“I think you mean yes.”

The taste of blood still lingers in your mouth, and it remains even in your slumber.

Of course, you passed out due to your traumatic experience, and threw up again as well. Jack took advantage of your fragile state and brought you back to your home, the place you belonged - with him. He cut your Achilles tendons, just a warm up, really.

“Time to wake up.” Jack’s voice permeates your head, rousing you from your slumber. His gloved hands are snapping in front of you.

It’s bright, much too bright. Your body feels simultaneously heavier and lighter. Where are you? You see that you’re now looking into an operating light, and it’s super uncomfortable. “What did you do to me?” You ask drowsily.

Jack ignores your question and instead picks you up. His footsteps begin to lull you into sleep.

Exhausted, you fall back in again, and this time? This time, it’s dreamless.

It’s that fucking cream colored ceiling again that you open your eyes to. The water damage is still the same, and you realize you’re still stuck. You’re about to get up when you hear your door opening.

“Nice to see you up,” Jack says, watching as you slowly come to. “Did you dream about anything?”

You narrow your eyes recoiling as he reaches his hand out to pet you.

Jack glares at you for a moment, his hand straightening before he slaps you. “Don’t get testy, I’ll take your arms next,” he murmurs.

You’re about to bite back when you take in his words. What? Your heart begins to sink, deeper and deeper as your hand shakily reaches to the edge of your bed sheets. No. No. NO. You hold your breath as you rip the sheets off. Your flesh is swollen, puffy and looks like it’s crying out in its own form of pain. Large, manila colored casts and bandages surround your thighs and what remains of your knees.

You begin to hyperventilate. Your chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster - your body feels like a prison.

Jack only coos. “Stop that,” he says lovingly, hand petting your head as you fall deeper and deeper into despair. He removes the black glove from his hand and grabs your face, his dark, eyeless sockets boring into your own eyes. He looks at you with such adoration that acts as a front for the betrayal and anger he feels for you deep down inside. He draws closer to your tear stained face, a small smile bearing shark-like teeth at you before parting his lips to speak to you. “You’re being hysterical.”

[hurricanes-art]

i am interested in your hades au, would you mind giving some details about it? 👁 it looks really interesting

[This AU is from these drawings!]

*cracks knuckles* Ok! I actually got enough sleep last night so I'm finally feeling up to explaining this au lmao

Also I hope that by “some details” you meant “way way too many” because I am nothing if not long winded. Also @hades-hellsite asked for context too, here you go

The central premise is that, after he dies, Achilles manages to make an arrangement with Hades that allows both him and Patroclus to stay in Elysium together. He's not employed to work at the house and he never becomes Zagreus's combat trainer.

Hades makes a few attempts to find Zagreus a different teacher among the shades of great warriors, but being skilled does not make someone able to teach. And being able to teach one way doesn't mean someone will be good for every student. When Zagreus doesn't learn well with the few mentors Hades tries, which he barely gives a chance to breathe anyway, he's quick to decide that he must have no martial ability and declares Zagreus a failure in that as he has about so many things.

This has two major effects on Zagreus before his escape attempts begin. One, without any chance to actually grow into aptitude in combat, he's left without anything substantial to put his energy into and, more importantly, he's left without anything he feels good at and that gives value to his efforts. Two is that, in Achilles' absence, very few people in the house give him any care and support untwisted by the politics of the house and the judgment of his father. There is Orpheus, kind to him before Hades locks him away for refusing to sing, Hypnos, willing to put the house to sleep so he can find the truth though jumbled up in his own problems, and Nyx.

Nyx is the only one to aid Zagreus when he decides to try to escape. She contacts Olympus and weaves careful lies to win their support and blesses his departure. She's also the only one who believes that Zagreus has the slightest chance of escaping. Already in canon, most everyone tells him there no way he'll make it out, but here, it's so much worse. He doesn't know how to fight, his initial attempts are pitiful and his progress negligible, and near everyone lashes out at him to get back in line and stop making things worse.

He doesn't even have the Infernal Arms. Achilles is the one who brings them to him in canon; here Zagreus takes a simple bronze sword from one of the house's many displays of weapons from wars long past. He thanks the Fates that the Styx restores it the same way it does his body when he dies because he nicks and dulls the edges every time.

Despite all the disadvantages, Zagreus throws himself into escaping with unshakable determination, bone deep stubbornness. He picks up his sword and will figure out how to use it himself. Experience will be his teacher. He dies over and over and he watches his enemies and learns how they move and how he must react, mimicking their attacks for his own use and adjusting and adjusting after each failure. And contrary to Hades' adamant belief, Zagreus is very intelligent and learns brilliantly when allowed to and he grows stronger and stronger.

There's no teacher more savage than experience in something like this, though. The pursuit is agonizing and the cost is enormous and adjusting to this ceaseless violence feels impossible.

Much of my interest in this idea is how the added strain on his circumstances and relationships affects Zagreus and his mental state. At his best, Zag looks a lot like he does in canon, with his laurels unfurled and vibrant, and his feet glowing hot, but he rarely feels his best here. His laurel leaves curl in dry and crisp, muted like the leaves of autumn. Flakes of ash and soot build up over his legs and encase more and more as he suffers. So deep is his feeling of failure and being trapped that it affects him physically.

Not always, though. His flames respond to his emotions, burn brighter in his passion. Enthusiasm, love, fervor, bliss, anger set him glowing.

After a brutally drawn out span of time, Zagreus meets Achilles and Patroclus in Elysium and tbh, the rest of my interest is really in how the altered circumstances change the evolution of their relationships with each other. The pair of warriors were never separated for an extended time and Achilles is less downtrodden and resigned and Patroclus is less bitter and abrasive when Zagreus stumbles upon them.

They don't fight him, which Zagreus counts among his greatest blessings, although Achilles still seems to have an interest. It makes him twitchy and he jumps when Achilles finally lifts his spear and swings it around in his third time in their little glade only to bump the flat of the blade against elbow and tell him to keep it in more towards his body. Zagreus blinks rapidly at him before adjusting his arm.

Achilles helps him here and there, tips and tricks and valuable advice, but he never gives anything near the thorough instruction he did in canon. On one hand, he doesn't need to. Zagreus is a self made fighter and it leaves him with weaknesses but it is also a powerful thing. He is unpredictable and incredibly adaptable and he only continues to improve.

On the other hand, there's no room for it. Achilles is gentle with his guidance, but Zagreus is rubbed raw by all the fighting he's done and all that still depends on it. He doesn't want to always focus on the weapon in his hands. Patroclus notices and curbs Achilles' input when it exceeds its bounds. He sits aside and observers carefully when they spar. Zagreus doesn't need another's direction which is fine by him, who's lost all desire for combat. He gives his aid through his assortment of trinkets that carry Zagreus further to the surface.

Zagreus barely knows what to do with himself in the face of their care. He's so unaccustomed to such generous and genuine support, interest devoid of expectation or blame. As familiarity between the three of them grows, their interactions grow warmer, more tender and comfortable. Their care lays on a foundation, not a hinge, and Zagreus grapples with understanding that he really can lean on it. It all leaves him so uncertain yet so desperate because he wants more than anything to have joy and conversation and company with others where he doesn't shoulder heavy guilt from unspoken accusations over his escaping the house and to have a place he feels he belongs without being an intrusion.

He does at first believe he's intruding, though. Intruding on their time together in the peace of Elysium. It takes them time to convince him that they value his presence immeasurably. The opportunity to stay together in the Underworld has been invaluable for Achilles and Patroclus, but the peace of Elysium is a deceptive thing. It wears away and prickles at them, pressing down in odd warping ways. Patroclus is beyond pleased to have the war behind him and that it can never force him to fight again, and despite Achilles retaining an interest in competition and combat, he does feel the same way. Having a cause though, something to believe in and worth devoting their efforts towards... They didn't realize how deeply they missed it until Zagreus. It is revitalizing. They thrive in his genuine, boundless kindness and long to support him.

The drawings of Orpheus arguing with Hades and Zagreus fighting with Nyx is from one of my plot point ideas. Later down the line, together, Hades, Persephone, and Nyx agree to forbid Zagreus from seeing Achilles and Patroclus at Nyx's behest. Similarly to how she talks about Dusa in canon, she sees mortal shades as beneath his station and that it's highly unbecoming for the prince to be consorting with them. Zagreus fights against the idea ferociously and is only smothered by the threat that, if he seeks them out anyway, Hades will void Achilles' agreement and have Patroclus moved to the proper plane of the Underworld.

It crushes Zagreus. He loves them and cares about them so much and being torn apart from them is a wound that cuts so deep. But even more than that, what breaks him open most, is the fact that it came from someone he cared for and trusted most. Nyx was the one person in the House he could depend on most and this betrayal at her hand is devastating. And for such a worthless reason as propriety and godly vanity. It's not her place to force those upon him. It hurts Zagreus to the core.

Orpheus is the only one willing to stick up for him in this, deeply empathetic to the grief of being separated from loved ones and well acquainted with the fact that such punishments will only damage, never correct. After all, his stint of punishment in Erebus didn't revive his desire to sing, it was Zagreus's dedication and vibrancy that did that. One of the many invaluable gifts Zagreus gave him, including reuniting him with Eurydice, making him happier than he'd been since her death. Orpheus can't keep biting his tongue when all these gods refuse to see any of this.

It all comes to a head dramatically and painfully and I've thought of a few variations on how it would play out. I'll leave it for now though, I might draw it or write it later >:3c  Also this got really long lol. Hopefully the idea is at least somewhat interesting!

And here, have the lines from these two drawings because I like the way they look

[eternally-writing]

memory lane | jjk

genre: fluff

rating: PG-13

pairing: Jungkook x reader

theme: boyfriend!au, one-shot

word count: 1.4k

warnings: implied sex before the story takes place

Synopsis: When you and Jungkook can’t fall asleep at night, you and him stay up chatting about past memories.

This was from a request by @carpediem1219​ (you can read the request here) !

If you have a fic request you can ask it here!

banner by me!

–♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡–

“Babyyyy, come back to bed,” groaned Jungkook, watching you move around in his bathroom.

You loved Jungkook, but you were not ready to risk getting a UTI for him so you left him in bed while you went to clean yourself up. Throwing on one of Jungkook’s shirts (which was basically a dress on you since you were so much shorter than him), you sauntered away from his sink.

“I don’t even know how you’re still awake babe, I definitely thought I tired you out tonight,” you joked as you plopped down next to your boyfriend, stealing some of the covers that were covering his lower half.

Turning over to face you, he gazed adoringly at your smiley self beaming back at him.

“Why would I need to fall asleep when I’ve got the girl of my dreams in front of me?” crooned Jungkook as he put his hands on your waist to pull you closer to him

You groaned at his cheesiness and lightly slapped his chest (you secretly loved it, but there was no way that you were going to admit that anytime soon).

You and Jungkook both led such busy lives, so you truly appreciated the quiet moments like this (which were few and far between). It felt like there was nobody else in the world but the two of you as you looked into each other’s eyes, simply enjoying the other’s presence. You felt like you were a character in a Hallmark movie; it seemed like such a fantasy to be laying in bed across from the man of your dreams, as if none of this could be real.

Instinctively, you brushed your thumb lightly over the scar on Jungkook’s cheek, rubbing circles into the small mark.

“You never told me how you ended up with this scar, Koo,” you said softly as you focused on the scar.

Jungkook chuckled, sticking out his pinky in front of you before beginning to speak.

“I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to laugh too much ok?” he said with his doe eyes staring at you.

You twisted your pinky in his, kissing the top of his finger as a promise.

“I was 10 and my brother and I only had one computer to share. He wouldn’t let me play on the computer before him so we fought until he scratched me on the cheek,” he said bashfully, scratching the back of his neck,

You did promise Jungkook you wouldn’t laugh too much, but you were having a really hard time holding it in.

“Seriously babe? All that just to use a computer? Good to know you were just as computer obsessed then as you are now,” you jeered at him (you were only slightly jealous of how much time he spent playing Overwatch with his hyungs)

You ran a finger over the small diagonal of the scar again, subconsciously smiling after knowing the story behind it.

“It must have hurt so bad - it looks deep” you said now with a frown.

“Well when my mom saw me crying with a bloody cheek she did let me use the computer that day, and she gave me ice cream too - I’d call that an absolute win in my books,” exclaimed Jungkook with a prideful smile.

Placing a chaste kiss right over the scar, you glow to him.

“That’s my boy. I love it - it’s what makes you you, yknow”.

Jungkook grinned and pulled you closer into his chest, rolling over so he was on his back, your head directly over his beating heart.

“Okay, an eye for an eye babe. What’s this scar about?” he inquired as he pointed to the small slice on your kneecap, pulling your leg closer to him at the same time.

“When I was in grade 1 the most popular thing to do during lunch time was skipping rope on the playground, and I couldn’t master the hand eye coordination to do it so I kept tripping.”

It was now Jungkook’s turn to giggle a little.

“Awe, my babygirl couldn’t skip rope?” he said with his voice teetering on a fine line between being sweet and making fun of you.

“So one time I tripped and scraped my knee on the pavement trying to jump rope and that’s when I got this scar. I remember crying on the asphalt for what felt like hours before my best friend at the time, Jangmi, found me. My mom didn’t get me to stop crying that day until she gave me 4 popsicles,” you said with a smile, looking back fondly on the early memory.

The gears kept turning in Jungkook’s head.

“wait… you can jump rope now though Y/N… right?”

You were definitely glad that you had your head on Jungkook’s chest at that moment since you could bury your head even further in his chest so he wouldn’t be able to see your embarrassed expression.

“no” you whispered out meekly, unwilling to say it any louder.

Jungkook gasped and pulled your head away from his chest, holding it now in his hands.

“Babe! that’s like a life skill!!” exclaimed Jungkook with a concerned tone, shouting way louder than anyone should after midnight.

With the way Jungkook was acting, someone would’ve thought that you were telling him that you couldn’t drive or ride a bike (you actually couldn’t do one of those… but Jungkook didn’t need to know that yet).

In the midst of his rant about the importance of knowing how to jump rope , Jungkook proposed a plan. “Tomorrow you and I are heading to the gym and you are learning how to jump rope!”

You mewled at his plan. “Babe, people have tried - I just can’t do it. You’ll have to live with having a  girlfriend who just can’t jump rope.”

Jungkook puffed out his chest and put his best cocky voice on. “It’s your lucky day Y/N. You’ve got Busan Middle School’s jump rope champion as your boyfriend to teach you.”

“Actually, Jungkook, I think it’s your lucky day. Even though I might not be able to jump rope, I do have some other special talents,” you said as you smiled smugly.  

Hauling your legs over his body, Jungkook brought your body so you were straddling him.

“Hmm, I think I might need a refresher babe. Care to show me?”

-♡-

With the moon as your only witness, you and Jungkook continued to share your favorite memories associated with all the little quirks on your bodies throughout the night.

You got to tell him all about the scar you got on your hamstring from your brief stint in competitive gymnastics, the scar on your ear from the first time you tried to curl your hair, and the scar on your back that you somehow obtained while baking a cake for your grandpa’s 85th birthday.

Despite it being the middle of the night, Jungkook still laughed and cried along with you as he heard your stories, loving the opportunity to get to know you better. Kissing each scar after each story, Jungkook smiled at how beautiful you appeared in the moonlight.

At the same time, you got to learn even more about Jungkook. Alongside the computer story, you learned that Jungkook had scars on his back from the time he swears he saw a shark while swimming in Busan (the rest of his family is 100% he just brushed up against a rock, but you know how stubborn Jungkook can be) and that he has scar on his left Achilles heel from the time he tried on his mom’s heels.

As the sun started to make an appearance in the sky again, your eyelids started to feel heavy. As you were about to drift off into dreamland, you heard Jungkook’s voice.

“you’re so beautiful - you know that right?”

Even in your sleepy haze, you still blushed at Jungkook’s sweet words.

“All these scars, all these things you try to cover up with makeup or hide, they all make you even more beautiful. I promise to never let you forget how beautiful you are to me Y/N,” confessed Jungkook as he ran his fingers softly through your hair.

The last thing you felt that night before you fell asleep was Jungkook placing a sweet kiss on your forehead.

You could only hope that Jungkook was as good at teaching people how to jump rope as he was at being an amazing boyfriend.

–♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡–

If you enjoyed what you read, please interact/follow! Thank you for reading♡

- Emily

[stanknotstark]

Violet Sunkiss (Loki x Reader)

Well it started as crack and then it got out of hand and DUDE THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CRACK 😭 you can blame @natashas-favourite-knives​ (what do you think of the title ehhhhh?) for inspiring this piece and @justfangirlthingies and @mellifluousart and @creeping156tin-reblogs​ for encouraging it too 😂

Summary: What started out as a thought of “What if you had a sun burn and begged Loki to change you into a vampire so it didn’t hurt anymore” turned into something completely different...I’m not complaining but apparently I can’t write crack 😂

Loki rolls his eyes at your theatrics. 

“Loki, it hurts, I feel like you could cook an egg on my shoulders!” 

“Lokiiiiii, put your cold hands on-OW, ok, maybe don’t do that again, thanks.”

“Loki, how do you not have aloe vera, you’re a vampire, aren’t sunburns normal for you?” 

“Loki! Could you use your magic to put un-melting ice on my back?”

“Loki-”

“Darling, if you give another inane request I will not hesitate to put you to sleep until the sunburn is healed.” Loki tells you with a glare. 

You smile up at him, from the couch. Then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, baring your neck to him. When you see his eyes fly to your neck you smirk. 

“Loki, it burns really bad, would you change me so I can heal faster?” You ask of Loki, coyly. He doesn’t miss the pout on your lips.

Loki’s eyes flash to yours and he growls. “Do not jest about that, you know how I feel about that.” 

Your smirk widens into a smile. “Please! It really burns and it’s getting itchy! You know I have a hard time not scratching.” 

Loki rolls his eyes, bringing a hand up to rub at his face. 

“Sweetheart, if i turned you it would heal your sunburn but if you ever got another sunburn it would be ten times as bad. It is illogical to turn you for something this small, anyways.” 

“Small? Loki, my entire back is going to be peeling in a few days, you call that small?” 

“You completely missed my point.” Loki shakes his head then makes his way to the couch and sits next to you. He takes your hand into his, his long, sharp nails trailing over your pulse in your wrist as he envelops your hand in his. 

“Is that what you truly want? For me to change you?” Loki asks, looking at you through his lashes. 

You want to play with him, he will gladly play right back. 

Loki smirks when he sees your face slacken and you swallow nervously. 

You both have had the conversation. Loki wants you to change so he may have you eternally, you were hesitant and requested time to think on it.

Loki trails his free hand up your side until it rests on your neck, his thumb nail scratching slightly at the pulse in your neck. Loki watches with pride as your mouth falls open and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch.

Loki takes this moment to pull you to him, his mouth now rests above the pulse in your neck. He lets his tongue flick over your skin and chuckles when you gasp and your hands ball in his shirt.

“I thought you said you weren’t sure yet, darling. Have you made up your mind?” Loki whispers over your now goosed skin. 

“I-uh...” 

Loki pulls from your neck with a smirk. “That’s hardly an answer, sweetheart.” He tells you, inches from your face, in a smug tone. 

Loki watches as you come back to yourself, he doesn’t miss the stubborn flash in your eyes. 

“Unless you have a way to take away the pain and peeling...yes.” 

Loki looks into your eyes with a squint. He lets out a frustrated sigh when all he finds is you being a stubborn brat. 

However, he listens to you and settles a hand on your shoulder. 

“Ow! I told you-Oh....”

Loki smirks as you melt into his hand. He used his magic to cool your heated skin and relieve some of the pain. He could make the burn disappear but he thinks you deserve a little retribution for your actions and demands. 

When Loki is holding you after you melted into his touch, curling into his body on the couch, you let out a small thanks to which Loki smiles at but doesn’t respond. 

A week later you make the request again. 

“God, fuck, ah!” You shout, hopping on one foot.

Loki rounds the corner quickly and raises an amused eyebrow as you hop around, clutching at your other foot. He assumes you’ve stubbed your toe on the wall. 

“Stop laughing at me, asshole!” You shout at Loki who can’t help a laugh at your yelling. 

“Loki, it hurts really bad, can you change me so it doesn’t?” 

That makes Loki huff and leave the area, you smirking at his retreating form. 

It happens again a few days later. 

“Darling, the food just came out of the oven don-”

You take a bite against better judgement and hasfafsafa the food in your mouth till it’s cool enough to swallow. You fan air to your mouth with your hand then pout at Loki. 

“If you change me it won’t burn anymore!” 

Loki purses his lips and stabs his fork into the food he had prepared for you both. “I did try to warn you, if you would listen.” He tuts, ignoring your plead. 

“Loki! If you change me I won’t have to drive to the store anymore, I can just teleport!”

“If you change me I won’t ever get cold again!”

“Loki, change me so my nails get longer!” 

Loki doesn’t ever listen to your demands but he lets you keep making them because he has hopes that thinking about it so much will help you come to a conclusion on his question. Perhaps with your mind constantly thinking about it you’ll become familiar with it and even want to be changed, seriously. 

It happens one day when you’re both cuddling in bed, close to falling asleep after a long day. 

“Loki?”

“Hmm?” Loki hums behind you. You lay as the small spoon, your back to Loki’s chest under the covers. He lets his hands wrapped around your waist caress at the skin under your shirt. 

“If vampires couldn’t die there would be more of them, that means while you’re immortal there is something that can kill you, right?” 

Loki blinks as he regards your random but, definitely thought out, question. 

“Yes.”

“What can kill you?” 

“Every vampire has a...an achilles heel, if you will. You don’t know where it is till you’ve changed. If someone were to stab you there with pure silver, we cease to exist.” Loki refuses to let his lips form the word die. 

You’re quiet after his explanation but then you ask, “What’s yours?” In a small voice. 

Loki tenses, his hands that had been caressing you now frozen over your skin. Then he lets out a breath and relaxes. You weren’t going to kill him, merely curious. He trusts you wholly, and that might scare him a bit if he hadn’t come to terms with it years ago.

“The nape of my neck.” 

At Loki’s response you let out a thoughtful hum and turn in his arms to face him. You bring your hands from under the covers and wrap around his neck to rest on his nape. When your nails dig into the flesh and baby hairs there to slightly scratch, Loki shudders, his eyes closing, and pulls you to him, even closer. 

When Loki blinks his eyes back open you look at him with a soft look. 

“Change me.” You demand softly. 

Loki frowns. “Why?” Not sure if your heart was in the right place yet, the whole conversation said otherwise though. 

Loki watches as your eyes flicker over his face. 

“So that way if I ever need to protect you, I can. If a vampire were to come and attack you, try to kill you, I would be a liability. If you change me, that gives you a better chance of surviving.” 

Loki lets his lips twitch, as if wanting to smile. “Are you suggesting I can’t hold my own?” 

Loki feels warmth bloom in his chest when you laugh lightly. “No. Just that I want to help protect you if I can. The cherry on top is that I get to spend eternity with you, I suppose.” You say, your hands involuntarily pulling at the strands of hair on Loki’s neck, nervously at your confession.

Loki lets out a small breathy moan but really looks at you to see if you’re serious. Looking in your eyes he finds nothing but confidence and love. 

“Eternity is a long time, are you sure about this?” Loki asks, giving you one more chance to back out and retain a normal life. 

When you smile at him and nod he feels his face soften into a stupidly in love look. 

“Then your wish is my command, darling.” 

Loki shifts till he hovers over you, sleep forgotten long ago by you both. As he looks down at you he expects there to be a nervous look on your face, a small tick to hint at fear, but instead you look up at Loki as if this is exactly where you’re meant to be. This pulls Loki towards you so he may take your lips in a sweet kiss. 

Loki pulls from your lips and looks at you. “It will hurt when the transformation hits you. You will die,” Loki looks you in the eyes, to make sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into, “And then you will be remade.” 

At your confident nod Loki straddles your hips and rests on his knees. He brings his wrist to his mouth and makes a small cut. As the blood begins to flow from him he holds his wrist over your mouth and watches as the first drop touches your lips before you realize you need to open your mouth and drink his blood. Smart girl. 

Loki lets his blood flow and then you’re surging your arms up to grab Loki’s wrist and pull it to your lips. You suck at his blood with fever and Loki gasps. He hasn’t felt someone drink from him since he himself was changed. It’s a slight sting that’s overshadowed by a euphoric feeling. 

Loki lets you drink from him with small gasps and winces when the pain exceeds the euphoria. Finally you let go of Loki’s wrist and he lets out a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Looking down at you he wants to smile. You’re messy when you drink, your lips are smeared in red, your white teeth also covered in red when they flash from under your lips. 

That’s when you let out a grunt and try to curl up. Loki pins both of your hands above your head and his body pins your body down so you won’t thrash around and hurt yourself. 

Loki does the only thing he can as you thrash from the pain. He whispers in your ear, giving you sweet nothings. 

“You’re so strong, darling.”

“Soon you will be with me for eternity.”

“Even in death you have found a way to be beautiful and invigorating.” 

Loki winces as you let out a hoarse shout, your face scrunched up in pain, tears falling down the side of your face into the pillow below you. 

“Shhh. It’s almost over, you’re doing so well sweetheart. Just hold on for a few more seconds.” Loki says, kissing the side of your face as your body slowly stops thrashing and shaking with a wild fury. 

When you fall completely still Loki pulls up to look down at you. The life is slipping from your eyes. 

“I will be right here when you wake, darling, then we shall start anew.” Loki whispers, kissing your forehead as your eyes lose all life. Loki brings a hand to come over your face and close your eyes for you, then peels his shirt off to clean at the blood on your lips. He unceremoniously throws the shirt somewhere in the room and returns his attention to you.

Loki brings your arms down to hug yourself, he shifts over to lay next to you then pulls you back into the spooning position you both started with earlier. 

He’s nuzzling his face in your nape when you take in a deep breath and return to the land of the living, more like conscious seeing as you were now dead though. His hand comes to settle on your chest. Loki admits, he will miss the feeling of your heart beating under your breast but he wouldn’t trade anything for having you for eternity. 

You both just lay there, Loki letting you get used to your new senses, and you taking in all the new information you’re receiving. 

Finally, when you’ve taken in everything new you turn in Loki’s arms, again, so you may look at him. 

Loki first sees your eyes are bright gold, then he sees your lips quirked up in a smirk. 

“Welcome to the land of the dead, darling.” 

Loki watches as your face goes from smirking to disbelief. 

“That is the most cliché-” You’re cut off when Loki pulls you into a kiss.

You smile in between Loki’s kisses. When he pulls back he looks at you with admonishing eyes. “Give me a break, you drank half my blood.” 

You giggle and bring your hands around his neck. Loki lets a hand grab behind your knee and drag it up his waist. At your gasp and shudder Loki looks at you with raised eyebrows. “I suppose we know where your spot is.” 

You nod, biting your cheek when Loki digs his fingers into the soft skin behind your knee. He loses interest though and rests his hand on the side of your thigh, caressing. 

“As exciting as tonight has been we do need sleep. You will need lots of sleep and blood for the next few weeks.” Loki rests his forehead on yours. He steals a peck from your lips. “Sleep. Come morning I shall teach you everything.” 

You nod and let your eyes fall closed. Sleep isn’t hard to find considering you now feel exhausted. 

“Love you.” You get out before falling completely asleep. 

“And I you.” Loki says, closing his own eyes and chasing after sleep. 

[cursestothemoon]

I Won’t Say I’m In Love

iii.

Fred Weasley x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Warnings: forced intimacy, suggestive themes, strong language, fighting (verbal and physical), Adrian being a sleazy jerk, Adrian speaking of nonconsensual acts (nothing graphic or intense)

Summary: Fred overhears Adrian and suddenly everything is different, now he needs to go talk to Y/n one last time.

Word Count: 4253

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

Patroclus fought with the form and art of Achilles. He wore his helmet and bore his shield, he took long strides to embody the aura of the hero.

But Patroclus was not Achilles.

It was his hubris, his poisonous pride that drove the knife of the enemy through his gut.

And as Patroclus lay dying, his pride trickling out of his fatal wound, he thought of Achilles and he thought of love and war and hubris, and how it was a sick twist bestowed upon the mortals from the gods that all three would be intertwined with an unbreakable bind.

It was in a similar fashion to Patroclus that Fred now lay in the midst of a battlefield deserted, his pride slowly seeping out of his fatal wounds. Only Fred hadn’t been struck down by an enemy. No, Fred had attained his wounds from himself, his pride playing the parts of enemy, sword, and blood in his battle.

The fight was explosive, and Fred was feeling the aftershocks of it all as he remained where he had been for the last ten minutes. Ten minutes since she walked away from him. Ten minutes since he bared his teeth and snarled, a rabid dog taking over his judgment.

Regret is not a big enough word, not strong enough nor capable of expressing the sharp, shredding feeling that Fred felt inside. And as he took a step, the fight played out before him as a scene in front of a director, he had to stop himself from doubling over and being sick.

How could he?

Why would he?

Did he really have such little control that he seemingly blacked out completely and let his jealous rage take over?

With blinding speed Fred moved for the first time in now twenty minutes. He took quick steps toward the tree that he could still see her figure leaning against if he tried hard enough, and hit the bark with a hard punch. He wasn’t sure if the echoing crack was from the tree or his hand but nevertheless he reeled his fist back and layed another blow onto the innocent tree. Two became three, then four, then five soon enough every hit melded into one frenzy of rage and guilt and regret, leaving his knuckles torn, bloodied, and bruised while his chest began to heave.

Fred pulled his fist back again, but instead of a powerful blow it jutted with a stutter before he placed it on the bark to steady himself, his head falling forward making the roughness of the tree hit his forehead as he took in deep breaths. Shoulders slumped and eyes screwed shut, anger faded along with jealousy, leaving behind only his painful regret.

He gathered himself before trudging to meet George on the quidditch pitch, his sullen demeanor, unnaturally pale face, and lacerated knuckles letting the younger twin know that there was no confession of love or making amends between the two.

“Freddie…”

***

Y/n dried her tears and held her head up high as she walked back into the castle, Lily waiting for her by the entrance. She had seen the fight, Y/n knew it too, but neither of them mentioned it as they made their way deeper into the castle and to their dorm. They had made a plan to get butterbeers and Y/n would be damned if she let some fight with a boy get in the way of her enjoying her time with her best friend.

Quidditch practice, on the other hand, was disastrous.

Slytherin and Gryffindor had been scheduled to share the pitch for practice today, a plan made by the two heads of houses who didn’t want to deal with the captains fighting over the pitch again.

Tensions were high on the field as Adrian took it upon himself to make his presence known to Fred at any chance given. The aforementioned Gryffindor was quick to slug bludgers in his direction with a force fueled by hatred.

Angelina and Marcus called practice twenty minutes early, both of them having enough sense to know that someone was going to get hurt soon if the two boys weren’t separated- Marcus needed more persuading but begrudgingly agreed.

“Oi! Weasley!”

Both Fred and George turned to Angelina, the latter with a lighter energy.

“Fred, I don’t know what’s going on with you today but next practice I need your head in the game.”

Fred nodded passively before turning on his heels and walking to the locker rooms. George gave Angelina an apologetic shrug before following after his brother.

To get to the Gryffindor locker rooms it was necessary to pass by the Slytherin locker rooms, an unfortunate layout choice by whoever was responsible for the placement. Fred flexed his hand, fists opening and closing, as he walked past the open door. His eyes darkened with an emotion so strong it bled down to his reddening cheeks. George, the twin known for his more empathetic tendencies, could feel the anger sizzle in the air as Adrian’s voice sounded from inside the locker room.

“-you know I always get what I want in the end.” He chuckled, in conversation with someone.

Fred thought to keep walking, to ignore the conversation and move on from it all, even George was adamant on trying to nudge his brother to keep walking, but something kept him standing there with Fred, just hidden from the open doorway.

“Fred come on mate, it’s just going to rile you up.” George tried to reason with his twin in a harsh whisper.

The boy instead brought a finger up to his lips telling his brother to keep quiet as he tried to listen. This resulted in an eye roll from George, knowing there was no changing Fred’s mind once he was stuck on something.

“Is she any good?” The voice belonged to Marcus Flint.

In the locker room Adrian was leaning against his locker talking to Marcus about Y/n and how everything seemed to be falling into place for him.

Adrian gave a shrug as he thought about the question seriously for a moment before a grin split his face making Marcus chuckle.

“When she isn’t fighting it, yeah Y/n’s good. Ever since she had the falling out with the weasel she’s been a lot… easier to deal with.”

Marcus furrowed his brows, “How’d you mean?”

“Before she used to fight me. Push me away, get mad, yell. But after the whole thing with him she just doesn’t care to fight anymore. I should thank him, just today I had seen him walking in our direction so I made sure to give him a good show.”

“And you’re sure Weasley saw?”

Adrian nodded with a proud smile, “Oh yeah, he definitely saw us. They had a nasty fight too, I imagine it won’t be too long until I can get her alone so I can get her knickers off like old times. After that fight I doubt she’d have enough energy to really try to fight me off. I mean she can only say no so many times.”

Marcus had gone silent, offering his friend a curt nod trying not to show his discomfort for how far Adrian was willing to go.

Just on the other side of the entrance Fred was seeing red.

“I’ll kill him.” He seethed to an equally enraged George, who was glad he didn’t force Fred to leave.

With impeccable timing Adrian walked out of the door, now in front of the twins.

“Pucey.” George called, but Fred wasn’t one for words at the moment.

No, instead he took two long strides toward the sleazy Slytherin before throwing his fist into his face. The force caused Adrian to stumble back a few steps and fall into a kneeling position before he reached for his wand that had been placed in the waistband of his trousers. Fred was quicker, fortunately, and knocked it out of his hand.

“Come on, fight me like an honorable wizard, Weasley.” Adrian sneered getting up to his feet.

Fred, who had left his wand in his locker, shook his head, “Won’t be needing a wand to turn your face inside out, Pucey.”

That was the last statement before he lunged into Adrian a fight ensuing. George stood back cheering on his brother, who clearly had the advantage, only stopping to put a warning hand on Marcus Flint’s chest- he looked as though he was going to go to his friend's aid.

Fred was relentless with his hits, slugging him over and over again. He was blind with rage, arms detailed with ever present viens and the slightest of blood splatter from Adrian’s nose and mouth. The aforementioned boy was trying his best to block Fred’s painful jab’s to any point of his body that could be reached.

“Go.” George spat with venom in a slow drawl, his tone was intimidating. Intimidating and threatening enough to get Marcus to, reluctantly, walk away.

He was like a man possessed, the more Adrian bled the more he wanted to keep going. Fred was adamant on beating his anger into Adrian, his anger with the Slytherin and with himself.. It was happening right in front of him, Y/n was being used right in front of him and he couldn’t see it. He let his insecurities get the better of him and now he was rolling around in the mud with Adrian Pucey who had just landed a single punch to Fred’s jaw making it ache. His bruising jaw was the least of his worries however and grabbed Adrian by the collar of his shirt, lifting him a few inches off the ground before slamming him down again. He repeated this action until it seemed Adrian was slipping in and out of consciousness and his own nail beds were begging for respite from how tightly he was gripping the fabric.

Fred threw him down one last time before standing up over his bloodied body, George coming to his side and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You did it, Fred. He’s learned his lesson.”

He got a nod in response and he dropped his hand slowly as his eyes shifted to the groaning boy on the floor. George would’ve joined in beating the boy to a pulp, he was itching to really, but he knew this was something Fred needed to do himself.

The older twin curled his lip in a snarl as he crouched down again, his elbows resting on his bent knees as he spoke.

“Talk like that, do those things again to anyone…” Fred brought a hand to grab Adrian’s jaw and turn his face as he gave his work an appraising once over. “And I’ll kill you.”

He gave his face a harsh shove in the opposite direction making the boy wince before he straightened up and started walking away from the scene, away from the locker rooms.

George furrowed his brow before calling out, “Where are you off to?”

“To find her.”

***

Y/n and Lily were on their way back from Hogsmeade, the thick sweetness of butterbeer still coating their tongues. The fight wasn’t mentioned, not without an attempt from Lily, but it was evident with the way Y/n shutdown, her words coming out jumbled, and fingers wringing together that she did not want to talk about it.

The walk back was filled with light conversation until Lily got annoyed with how her friend was behaving.

“You know your whole act is making me sick.” She stated, her tone neutral.

Y/n was taken aback for a moment trying to figure what happened, “Lil-”

“And when I’m not sick, I’m tired. I am sick and tired of this back and forth game. You didn’t want to talk earlier, that’s fine it was still fresh. But you can’t keep bottling it up like this, you’ll kill yourself.”

The only response she got was a sigh before Y/n started to talk just barely above a whisper.

“He’s just like everyone else, Lily. He believes everything people say about me.” She sniffled but continued to speak, “If I had known that Adrian would… do what he did, say what he did, I never would’ve lost my virginity to him but rumors start and I can’t stop that.”

Lily seemed to be in thought before speaking, “I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier, didn't do anything. I won’t leave you alone with him, ever, I promise.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was quiet and barely heard above the crunch of gravel under their feet.

“And Fred? How do you feel about him?”

Y/n shrugged, collecting herself before she spoke, “It’s over. I’ll get over it. You’d think a person’s feelings would fade after such a...conversation.”

Her friend nodded, “You still love him.”

It wasn’t a question, Lily didn’t ask, she told her. Stated it as common knowledge and Y/n was tired of denying her feelings. Tired of pretending not to care and tired of holding so much in.

“Why?” Her voice was broken as she asked Lily with a hopeless voice, tears starting to freely fall down her face.

“Oh, Y/n…”

The Slytherin embraced her crying friend, more than willing to offer her much needed comfort. She knew it was difficult for Y/n to be this open with her feelings, her tears dampening the crook of Lily’s neck was not a familiar feeling.

“It hurts. I don’t want to have these feelings anymore.”

Lily felt her own eyes well with tears, “Maybe your heart knows something you don't, that’s why it won’t let you let go.”

“Well I wish it would stop hiding things from me.” Y/n laughed as she pulled away from the hug, wiping her face.

The girl agreed with a soft giggle before linking their arms and continuing their walk back to the castle, a comfortable silence falling over them.

Fred was pacing the main entrance of the castle, just in front of the Great Hall, no doubt leaving dirty footprints on the otherwise clean stone floor. He was still in his quidditch uniform, hair tousled from the wind, fists bloody, and dirt from rolling around on the ground was up to his mid thigh.

The echo of footsteps made his head snap up, his breath hitched as he saw Y/n and Lily walking back into the castle together. The dried tears and puffy eyes made his heart ache, regret and sadness flooding all of his senses.

It was knowing that he messed up.

He did this.

It was no one's fault but his, and the real kicker was that even if he apologized, got down on his knees pleading and crying, she had every right to walk away.

She didn’t have to forgive him, he didn’t deserve it and Fred knew that, and accepting that was what allowed him to finally push his pride aside.

“Why do you look like that?” Lily’s voice rang through the entrance, her face scrunched in disgust at Fred’s less then put together appearance.

He couldn’t care less about her question, his eyes were trained on the way Y/n’s breath skipped and she seemed nervous, almost… scared to be near him again.

“Y/n…”

Lily looked between the two, each holding a lovesick gaze polluted with sadness that made her, quite honestly, uncomfortable, but she was able to gage the situation and spoke up, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Need something, I’ll be in our common room.”

Y/n nodded, giving her friend a nervous smile as she left, then looking back at the roughed up ginger standing before her.

“Fred.”

Her tone was stoic and he hated it.

Fred didn’t know where to start.

“I-” The words got lost in his mouth as she looked at him expectantly.

Y/n shook her head, going to walk in the same direction Lily went, “Look, if you’re just going to continue calling me names I’m going to leave.”

“I’m sorry.” His words came out rushed and near a shout as he took a step forward trying to reach out to her, to stop her from leaving.

He watched as the girl seemed to mull things over before giving him a curt nod, “Yeah, it’s fine. What’s done is done.”

She ended the sentence with a new found attitude, he had chosen to act the way he did, now he had to deal with it.

With a sudden surge of passion Fred nearly growled out, “No.”

“No?”

“No. It’s not done. It’s not over. I was stupid and rude an-and a disrespectful git. I want to apologize for the nasty things I said, you didn’t deserve that, not at all.” Fred fought.

Y/n nodded, “You’re right. I didn’t, so why say it?”

Fred let out a breath as he stepped closer to her, eyes burning with an emotion Y/n had never seen before.

“Because I was jealous, insecure, and stupid. I thought you were going with him… and I knew I’d never be able to compete with that but I- Y/n, I-” He grew frustrated as he tried to find the right way to finally confess his feelings.

Y/n felt her tears build again as she frantically shook her head, taking backward steps away from the wired boy.

“Don’t. Don’t say-don’t do this Fred.”

“I’m- I love you. I’m in love with-”

“No. Don’t say that!” Heavy tears were now rolling down her face as she tried to shy away from Fred who was taking cautious steps toward her.

“Why not? Why can’t I tell you that I am in love with you, Y/n.”He questioned carefully.

She looked up at him with one of the saddest expressions he’d ever seen on a single person, “Because how am I ever meant to stop loving you when you’re saying things like this? How am I supposed to move on and get over you when you’re saying that you’re in love with me. You’re being mean Fred, just let me get over you.”

It was Fred’s turn to shake his head, “I’ll tell you every minute of every day if I had to, I love you Y/n. I love you, I love you, I love you.” The words fell so easily from his lips now, like a sacred mantra.

This only seemed to make her cry harder as she hugged herself with her arms, the sight made Fred want nothing more than to rush over to her, pull her into his embrace and wipe away each tear but he knew he had to tread lightly.

“Stop! Adrian, he’ll-”

Y/n watched Fred clench his fists, now noticing how swollen and wounded they looked.

“You don’t want to know what I overheard him saying, the things he wanted to do, the things he’s done!” Fred exclaimed, his temper making his voice rise.

At Fred’s words Y/n hung her head low, more silent tears falling down her nose. She didn’t know what to say.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice softened as he stepped closer to her, the closest he’s gotten so far.

The comment made a sudden rush of an emotion- one Y/n couldn’t name at the moment- rush through her. Her eyes snapped up to Fred’s soft ones, an index finger pointing at him weakly.

“You were supposed to know, just like you’re supposed to know that I’ve been in love with you. ” She cried, knowing her logic was flawed but making no effort to stop arguing.

“If you didn’t tell me, how…” His voice was soft, the same tone one would use talking to a wounded animal or crying child.

Fred reached a hand out toward her, letting her make the decision of whether or not he could touch her just yet. The act made her let out a humorless chuckle.

“The same way you know everything!” She shouted. “The same way you know that I get uncomfortable when people touch me, the same way you know my favorite color, or how you knew that no matter how annoying you were I’d still wait for you in the mornings before breakfast so we could walk together. You were just supposed to know.” Her voice faded into a sad whimper as she looked at him.

Streaks of freshly fallen tears now lined Fred’s face as he listened to the girl, his girl. With a featherlight touch he placed his hand on her cheek, holding her face and gently coaxing it to angle up so she’d look at him.

“You’re right, I should’ve known.” Y/n nodded at his words before crashing into his chest, holding onto his jersey as she wept into his chest.

Fred held her body to his, using his right hand to caress the back of her head in an effort to calm her before going to hold her face just under the junction of her neck and jaw, his left hand wrapped around her waist holding her flush against himself.

“I should’ve known.” He muttered again, leaning down to place a loving kiss on the crown of her head.

They stood like that for who-knows how long, only the sound of Y/n’s soft sniffles being heard. It was lucky that dinner was still two or three hours away and most students didn’t come back from the Hogsmeade trip until they absolutely had to- which was twenty minutes before dinner.

Still, Fred knew they were lucky to not have any first years walking in on the emotional scene but he didn’t want to push that luck... he also didn’t want to move just yet.

“Freddie…” The soft tone made him absentmindedly run his thumb across her jaw.

“Yeah, Poppet?” His voice was hoarse, quiet and had a touch of sensitivity that made Y/n want to nuzzle into his chest but she stopped herself.

She swallowed before asking, “Did you mean it?”

Fred furrowed his brow, “What, love?”

“When you said you loved me.”

He let out a chuckle as he leaned back to look into her eyes, both of his hands going to cup her face as he spoke to her with a loving smile.

“I said it about seven times and you’re asking if I meant it? Unbelievable woman you are.”

Y/n laughed at his response, averting her eyes suddenly bashful under the intense emotion seemingly flowing through his eyes. Fred put a finger under her chin to tilt her head back up so he could look at her again, this time more serious.

“I am really sorry, Y/n. I shouldn’t have said those things, I hate myself for-”

He was cut off by the inexplicable feeling of having her be the one to now hold his face gently in her hands, as if he was delicate, important, she held him in a way he didn’t think he deserved to be held, not after all the things he’s said to her.

She searched his eyes for a deceitful haze, or glimmer of dishonesty and found nothing. Nothing except for worry, regret, and intoxicating love.

“It’s done, Freddie. It’s over. No use in worrying over it now that we can't change it.”

He gave a look of concern, “But-”

“I forgive you. I said some pretty nasty things too, let’s learn from it and move on.”

Fred’s eyes saddened and she felt herself involuntarily pout at his doe eyes.

“Move on, meaning…”

“I want you to kiss me, Fred.” She stated strongly with unwavering eye contact.

He leaned in slowly, on hand slipping to the back of her head as his fingers combed through her hair. Just before fully placing his lips onto hers, he angled his head up and placed a soft kiss onto the tip of her nose, he moved to the right corner of her mouth then the left placing sweet kisses. Fred looked into her eyes, silently asking if this was what she wanted. When she gave no sign of discomfort or hesitation he closed the gap between them. His kiss was passionate and slow, he wanted to feel her lips, the soft skin, every ridge he committed to memory.

Y/n felt herself get lost in the kiss, her eyelids had fluttered shut and hands coming up to hold both sides of his neck. She let out a whimper as Fred’s tongue found its way into her mouth, there was no fighting for dominance- Fred just wanted to feel her. Y/n found her way to the roots of his hair, giving them a tug making him groan into the kiss. He went to pull away, but she bit his lip carefully before letting it go watching as it jutted back to place.

She rested her forehead against his- given he was bent over significantly to reach her- and Fred could’ve sworn he’d never seen anything, or anyone, so beautiful. With swollen lips, flushed skin, a heaving chest, and eyes looking up at him through a thick set of lashes with a facade of innocence that made his knees weak.

Both of them grinned at each other, Y/n’s thumbs running back and forth over the soft skin of Fred’s long neck whilst he traced the outline of her cheekbones with his.

“I-I, uh…” Fred shut his eyes momentarily as he laughed at his attempts to find the right words.

Y/n smirked up at him before teasing.

“Are you always this articulate?”

Taglist:

italicized are blogs I wasn’t able to tag

@crazylokonugget​ @alluringshawn​ @meph1stophelian​ @lol-idk-oops​ @slytherclaw1996 @anywherebuthere​​ @freddieweasleyswife​​ @honey-honey-5644 @cookiecakeslive​ @lexymoniqu​ @siriusement​ @gloryekaterina​ @cyberangelpeach​ @lucymfer​ @freds-slut​ @s1ut4georgeweasley​@amourtentiaa  @wolfiepirate 

[thepartyresponsible]

this soundtrack fill is for kittenlzlz, who i cannot tag because it’s all sabotage all the time over here. also, i'm sorry, i didn’t realize you’d changed your prompt until after i wrote this one, so this is for the first thing you sent in.

anyway, here’s some dystopian sci-fi angst for sam and bucky with a hopeful ending. the song for this one is “achilles come down” by gang of youth.

                                                         —

When he was young, Sam spent thirty-seven weeks in New Mexico, learning how to keep people alive until evac. That others may live was a motto they preferred to operationalize rather than idealize, and, without the EMT training, pararescue tended to turn into high-risk body retrieval. So he spent the better part of a year learning how to keep a body breathing, and he learned, also, how to recognize when any effort was likely to be wasted.

Which is how he knows that what he’s looking at isn’t fully human. Because a human would already be dead.

It’s the blood that tells him, more than anything else. The Chitauri bleed a thick, dark blue substance that goes black if their cybernetics are leaking. And there’s plenty of blue and black puddled on the asphalt, but that red is a hemoglobin gift, and that means it’s all human.

“Shit, man,” Sam says, crouching next to the only human at this massacre. “You could keep a blood bank in business all by yourself.”

The man lifts his head and blinks at him, slow and a little dazed. Not dazed enough, though. He can almost focus on Sam’s face. “Not anymore,” he says, after a beat.

More blood bubbles up at the corners of his mouth. Sam can see it between his teeth.

“Yeah,” Sam says. And he laughs, because he might as well. Because he came out here with a team of ten to clean out the aliens, and it looks like one guy did their work for them. “Guess not.”

He’s a pathetic sight, really. Ragged body armor, hair clumped together, skin sticky with blood and ichor. He’s belly down on the cracked parking lot, and there’s a smear of blood behind him, showing exactly how far he’s managed to drag himself.

Sam’s not excited about what he’s going to see, when he rolls this guy over on his back.

“You gonna fight me if I help you?” he asks.

Most of them, these Enhanced, the surviving Super Soldiers, they can’t help it. Sam’s had to put a few down himself, although not for a while now. It’s been almost a year since he had to kill anything with a human face.

The man sighs. He rests his forehead against the asphalt, closes his eyes. His fingers flex and then go still. “I don’t know,” he says.

That others may live, Sam thinks. But the problem has always been that lives are balanced on both sides of the scales, and, sometimes, saving one means sacrificing another.

This man killed fifteen Chitauri, and he did it alone. There are kids back at the base. Vulnerable people.

The safest choice would be to leave him here. Let him save himself, if he can. But Sam’s never really been the safe choice type.

“Okay,” he says, hands curling around his shoulders, carefully rolling the man over on his back, “let’s see the damage.”

It’s enough to kill a human. But that’s not really what he’s dealing with.

                                                           —    

The Super Soldiers were a desperation play. Sam was supposed to be one of them. The best of Earth’s fighters, dosed with serum, patched up with cybernetics based on Chitauri tech, sent out to face the enemies that had invaded the planet.

Sam’s still not sure exactly how it happened, what level of their defenses failed. He only knows failure by its consequences.

The neural implants were hacked. The soldiers turned against their people. Sam, who’d been four days out from his own procedure, was shifted to a team tasked with hunting them down and eliminating them.

These days, there aren’t many left. There’s not much of anyone left. The Chitauri fundamentally misunderstood their target. Sam could’ve warned them. The species of mutually assured destruction was never going to die quiet.

He thinks about that while the Soldier sleeps, chained to a bed in a locked basement in an abandoned building two miles from the base. Sam keeps watch. He has a radio in case anything goes wrong, but he doesn’t intend to use it for anything other than warning them what’s coming.

“I could’ve been you,” Sam tells him. And then, smiling at nothing, shaking his head, “Hell, you could’ve been me.”

He wonders where he’s from. He wonders what his name is.

He wonders, when he can’t help it, what he did. If he ever killed anyone Sam used to know.

                                                           —    

The Soldier sleeps for forty hours and then sits straight up in bed, rips the chains off his wrists like they’re pipe cleaners, and then turns to face Sam. “What the hell,” he says.

“Oh, well,” Sam says, too startled to be afraid. “Didn’t want anyone stealing you.”

The Soldiers makes a face at him, an incredulous sneer that twists up his mouth and pulls his dark eyebrows together, and he looks so human, so perfectly skeptical, that Sam starts laughing.

“Well,” he says, with a shrug, “you killed fifteen aliens with a tire iron. You’re a treasure.”

“And I want it back.” he says, immediately. “Where’s my tire iron?”

“Confiscated,” Sam says.

He glares, and Sam‘s probably meant to be intimidated, but he knows – they both know – that, if this guy wanted to scare Sam, he could just start breaking bones. Or walls. “I want it back when I leave.”

“Leave,” Sam repeats. He kicks back in his chair, balances on the back legs as he swings his feet up onto the Soldier’s bed. “Why’re you leaving?”

The Soldier stares at Sam’s booted feet near his knees. “Usually it’s the fact that I’m a timebomb that chases me off,” he says, “but it looks like your manners are the real horrorshow around here.”

Sam grins at him. He’s merciless about it, uses the most charming smile in his arsenal. He expects the guy to soften a bit, but he’s not expecting the doubletake he gets, the there-and-away bounce of his stare, like Sam’s suddenly something he wants to look at but doesn’t want to get caught looking at.

Huh, he thinks.

“When’s the last time you hurt someone?” Sam asks.

The Soldier’s face crumples up and then flattens out. “What is this? Some kinda trial? An interrogation?”

“If this were an interrogation, I wouldn’t’ve given you the soft pillows,” Sam tells him.

The Soldier doesn’t look like he buys it. But, after a moment, he tips his head to the side. “Probably wouldn’t want to get blood on these white sheets,” he acknowledges.

“Christ,” Sam says, because that more or less seems to be the only thing he could possibly say to something like that.

The Soldier shrugs. He brushes his hair away from his face, blinks, and gives Sam a skeptical sideways stare. “Did you wash my hair?”

“With a firehose,” Sam confirms. “Damn near shaved the whole thing off. You were a mess, man.”

He shrugs. “It’s messy work.”

And, sure, it is. Sam knows. His base is the first resettlement outpost in this region. They’ve been clearing Chitauri out of the area for months.

But he still takes a damn shower whenever possible.

“Who were you?” Sam asks. “Before the program?”

The Soldier looks away. Looks at nothing. After a long pause, he recites, careful and rote, “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 107th.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “James. When’s the last time you hurt a human being?”

He worries at his lower lip, teeth pressing into the skin. He’s quiet for a very long time. “Thirteen months, ten days,” he says, finally.

Sam considers the timeline. “You think it’s over?”

“I think the implant’s in my fucking brain,” he says. “It’ll be over at brain death.”

“It’s just a chip,” Sam says. “It’s not sentient. Someone’s gotta send the message, right?”

The Soldier’s jaw works. “Even if the aliens stay out, there’s gonna be plenty of people who want to use someone like me, as soon as they rebuild enough to manage.”

It’s a hell of thing, and it could’ve been Sam.

He nudges the Soldier’s knee with his boot, and the Soldier stares at the point of contact. He doesn’t look angry anymore. If Sam had to use a word to describe the expression on the Soldier’s face, he thinks he’d use something bittersweet and barbed, something like lonely or longing.

“Gonna be a long damn time before anyone’s rebuilt,” he says.

“Aliens could have reinforcements here at any time,” the Soldier says.

“Maybe,” Sam says, although he thinks they might’ve learned some kind of lesson. At the very least, they’ve probably learned that it’s just not worth the effort.

“Look,” Sam says. “I think you should come back to the base.”

“No,” he says. Immediate and definite, louder then he’s been so far.

Sam expected it. Maybe part of him hoped for it. “Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll stay here. And, when you’re better, I want you to take a radio. And I want you to check in with us. All right? Every day.”

The Soldier stares at him. “Why the hell would you want that?”

Sam smiles, studies the hollows of the Soldier’s face, the scars, the freckles he must’ve earned when he was young, used to play too long in the sun. He has, Sam thinks, beautiful eyes. “There’s not a lot of us left,” he says.

“‘Us,’” the Soldier repeats, scoffing audibly.

“Us,” Sam repeats. He nudges the Soldier’s knee again, and the Soldier cuts his eyes away, glares at the wall. But, a moment later, he shifts, leans his knee into Sam.

                                                         —      

His name is Bucky Barnes. He’s fussy as hell, stubborn beyond belief, helpful every chance he can get, and fond of cats and songbirds. He doesn’t cheat at cards, and he doesn’t accuse Sam of it either, even when Sam beats him damn near every hand.

He’s a good man. Even now.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Sam says. Because it’s been two weeks, and Bucky’s decided he’s well enough to go.

Bucky ducks his head. “Shut up,” he says.

Sam wonders if he was always this head shy about affection.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll give you a goodbye kiss.”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, practically scuttling away, head still ducked. When he raises it, he’s grinning one of his ghost grins, the ones that almost show who he used to be, like a faint echo of a louder, happier man.

“Okay,” Sam says. “But if I don’t get a goodbye kiss, I’m definitely not gonna talk dirty to you on that radio. You gotta put in the work, Bucky.”

“I hate you,” Bucky tells him, and his crush couldn’t be more obvious. Sam would be embarrassed for him, if he weren’t busy being charmed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “Check in every day, or I’m gonna track you down.”

“Hm,” Bucky says. He adjusts his pack on his shoulders. He’s got that tire iron, an alarming number of knives, and two guns. He’s setting off to kill more aliens. He’s going alone. “That supposed to be a threat?”

He was a Barnes in the Army and Sam was a Wilson in the Air Force, and so Bucky is a Super Soldier and Sam is not. It’s unpredictable, sometimes, the way mercy falls.

“Be careful out there,” Sam says, and he knocks his elbow against Bucky’s.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He rolls his eyes and then catches Sam watching, and he blinks, falters. “Yeah,” he says, again. Softer, steadier. A promise, not a joke.

Sam considers him, lets the moment hang. Waits. Sometimes, all Bucky needs is the space and time to make up his own mind.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” Bucky says.

“There it is,” Sam says, grinning, almost crowing in triumphant. “There--”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes again, getting theatrical about it. “I already regret saying it.”

“Can’t take it back,” Sam taunts, grinning wide and smug.

“I’m going,” Bucky says, and he starts off, doesn’t look back.

“Hey, Buck,” Sam calls, when Bucky’s just about to break through the treeline, disappear into the woods. “I hate to see you go, but I love----”

“Fuck off, Sam!” Bucky says, but he’s laughing, and Sam can still hear it – surprised and happy, fully human – even after Bucky disappears.

[beepen]

all I did was buy Hades and play it. now it’s been 3 weeks and 

than and zag are idiots, here’s a thing. i love them. fuck. 

hypnos is a little shit

-----------------------------------------------------

There was something about Death that Zagreus believed should be savored, or rather, handled with great care. He didn’t know much about the ceremonies mortals held for their dead, only that Than had mentioned rituals and burials in the few conversations they’ve had about it. Thanatos wasn’t willing to give more than that, claiming he never had time to stay so long and observe the culture in which mortals laid their dead to rest. He simply followed the calling deep within his chest that led him to whatever unfortunate soul he was to take next, and afterwards, leave.

Zagreus hoped there was more to it, though. Not Than’s work—he hoped it was as simple as he described—but the mortals and how they deal with death. Did they honor it? Did they honor him? Did they understand that death was part of life, that they went hand-in-hand; that death...that Death was beautiful….

And gentle, Zagreus quietly mused, peaking around the corner to the West Hall with a bottle of Nectar carefully cradled in his arms. He didn’t even want to jostle it; it had to be in perfect condition. Nothing short of perfect should ever be gifted to Death Incarnate. It wasn’t a rule or anything, of course, just Zagreus’ own personal belief. It should be, though. It should be a rule. If he wasn’t on such bad terms with his father, he would ask that he make it so.

“You just missed him, Zagreus.”

The familiar voice lured Zagreus’ gaze from the empty spot at the end of the hall to Achilles standing at his usual place, just outside the King’s chambers. He had a knowing look about him, subdued yet piercing in his read of Zagreus’ dejected body language.

“He left moments before you arrived,” he informed, and Zagreus huffed in frustration, straightening from his little sneak position and walking towards the old warrior, still mindful of the bottle curled in his arms.

“You mean to say he left after having seen me emerge from the river.” Zagreus meant for it to be witty, but he couldn’t help the bitterness in his tone. Nonetheless, Achilles gave him a warm smile, albeit more out of pity than anything.

“Perhaps. Although he does have a rather demanding job.”

“Of course.”

Zagreus would have thought himself a narcissist for assuming Thanatos would leave in spite of him rather than because he had a duty to fulfill, but the accusation didn’t transpire simply because Chaos was feeling a little bored. Than had been avoiding him, that much was clear. If it weren’t for his obvious absences over longer-than-usual amounts of time, then it was the way in which he disappeared before Zagreus could get a single word in. Zagreus had known Than long enough to realize when the god was hiding away. And right now, Than was hiding from him.

Sighing, Zagreus loosened his hold on the bottle of Nectar and held it up to Achilles, keeping his gaze on the extravagant marbled floor. If Than was hiding from him, then it was probable he wouldn’t take too kindly to an unwanted gift. And Zagreus didn’t want to pressure him….

“For you,” Zagreus forced out, lifting the bottle higher for Achilles to take. “A token of my appreciation for everything you’ve done for me...you’re more of a father than my own—”

“Zagreus.” The interruption prompted Zag to shift his gaze from the floor to meet Achilles’ fixed stare. “I am honored, truly, but I’ve yet to find the time to drink the one you have already given me. Surely this one belongs to someone else?” He raised an eyebrow, as if trying to hint at something, trying to help Zagreus understand without outright saying it. The twinkle in his eyes was all-knowing.

“Yes, it was for....” Zagreus stared briefly at the little balcony, where Thanatos would be, if only he were there. He wanted more than anything to somehow find him and ravish him with gifts. Though, that would be too overwhelming for the gentle, moody god—and far too forward. Not to mention impossible, given how Zagreus is practically chained to the Underworld at the moment. There weren’t many places he could travel to in search for him.

Sighing, he shook his head and forced the strange desires to untangle their greedy threads from his heart. He nearly shoved the bottle of Nectar at Achilles.

“First come, first serve,” he joked, waiting for the old warrior to accept the bottle. Achilles didn’t bother even looking at the gift, instead reaching past it to comfort Zag’s shoulder.

“Thanatos will come back—this is his home, afterall.”

“Well, yes. But he won’t come back to me.” Zagreus immediately regretted the words the moment they slipped out, feeling unbearably selfish and exposed to his true feelings that he had, up until now, successfully avoided.. “I mean—that’s not how I meant to say it. It’s just...he’ll be back for you, for Nyx, Meg, and Hypnos, even. But not me. I’m not part of the reason he returns home.”

Not that Zagreus had any right to be. He was trying to leave the place Thanatos called home, for gods’ sake. And without telling him. Than had made it known he was upset about it based on their latest, and perhaps last, confrontation, but Zagreus knew Thanatos hardly revealed even a glimpse of what he truly felt. He couldn’t imagine how hurt Than really was….

Achilles’ grip on his shoulder tightened just barely, laughter twinkling in his eyes. “Prince, you are far too dramatic.” He didn’t elaborate further, almost as if the words were for his own amusement rather than to appease Zagreus’ worries. He backed off, hand slipping from Zagreus’ shoulder, and finally acknowledged the bottle still held up for his taking. “Keep that, and wait for him.”

Zagreus didn’t know what was so funny; the possible end of his friendship with Than was no laughing matter. And he didn’t want to give this bottle to Than anymore, anyway. It was all shaken up.

“Really sir,” Zagreus stepped forward, ready to shove the bottle in Achilles’ embrace if he had to. “It’s yours. I bestow it upon you.”

“I’m fine, dear Prince. In fact, I’m a little offended you would offer me a gift meant for someone else.”

Zagreus balked, interpreting Achilles’ slanted smile to be one of mockery. “Well I’m offended you won’t accept my gift! A gift I quite literally died for, might I add. Besides, I’m only going to offer you more in the future; there’s an abundance of them in Tartarus. Far too many for me to keep but enough for everyone to have multiple. I’m quite certain I will have another by the time Than shows his pretty face. Now, please sir, I demand you take this!”

He couldn’t possibly outstretch his hand farther, but he certainly tried his damned hardest, only for Achilles to cross his arms and shake his head. That slight smirk still adorned his face.

“Forgive me, Prince, but I do not accept your gift.”

Zagreus nearly growled. “Take it! I’ll stand here forever if you don’t!”

“You know as well as I that every soul, shade, and god alike are aware of your inability to stand in one place.”

“I—! I can stand in one place! I’ll do it now!”

It was only a few moments later that Zagreus was seen stomping away from the Great Achilles in humiliated anger, for the old warrior was correct: the Prince could not, for the life of him, stand still.

“Oh, shut up,” Zagreus grumbled, red hot in the face and fire at his heels (literally).

*****

Achilles was not his father, so he would not directly defy him as he did Hades, but he’d be damned if he walked away with a hurt pride and did nothing to make himself feel like a winner. So it was no surprise when he gave the wretched bottle of Nectar to Hypnos, practically announcing it to the entire House as if he were awarding a hero. Hypnos was glad to accept it, feeding off of the Prince’s drama and loudly proclaiming his thanks with a big smile until they were shouting back and forth, like kids playing pretend. That is, until Nyx urged them to be quiet, warning them that Lord Hades would be back any moment and that he did not tolerate the smuggling of Nectar.

And if Nyx heard them, then Achilles most certainly did too, and Zagreus walked back to his chambers with an inflated ego and his pride back in order, ready to tear through his father’s domain once again with the viscous intent to cause problems.

And caused problems, he did. The more chambers Zagreus tore apart, the more he began to think Achilles had purposely infuriated him. He was the one who trained Zag, afterall. He knew how to stir up trouble even better than the Prince himself, and it was a surprise to no one that the old warrior irritated Zagreus enough that the wretches of the Underworld cowered before his wrath.

Zagreus didn’t even know what he was so mad at. He was just riled up, stuck in his thoughts, so distracted he paid no mind to the aches and strains of his body from unconsciously pushing himself. He thought of nothing; just let the time pass and the monsters be slain, allowing his irritation to consume him entirely. It was almost impossible to recall the conversation he had with Meg, if any. The Fury may have said something upon his arrival, but Zagreus was in no position to respond, so they just fought.

Zagreus only acknowledged her defeat after the Lernagon Hydra crumbled to dust. By then he had ripped Asphodel a new one, with little to no recollection of how or when he got to this point.

“Must be a new record,” he mumbled to himself, the first he’d spoken since he jumped out of his window. He never made it this far….

His awareness came back to him, dragging himself down from the clouds he had been lost in. He took a second to catch his breath as he was made aware of how much his body hurt. Drinking from the fountain dulled it somewhat, but, gods, he must have been one hit away from collapsing. He wanted to collapse now, let the Styx consume him and heal him. And perhaps, now that his little fit was over and he had ransacked enough chambers to appease his emotions, apologize to Achilles for how rude he was back at the House. But up next was Elysium, and he had never been there; never was allowed to step foot in there. He wasn’t going to quit without going as far as his body physically allowed.

He didn’t expect Elysium to nearly blind him with its lush plants and sparkling sky, just as he hadn’t expected Asphodel to be so hot. It was far cooler up here, thank the gods, but he had to stay in the first chamber a few moments longer so his eyes could adjust to the brightness. He broke some precious pots too, of course. All of them, actually, and with a conniving grin on his face as he recalled his father yelling at him to stop being an ignoble brat.

Never.

Laughing almost maniacally, Zagreus dashed into the next chamber with newfound vigor, completely aware this time and not shrouded with overwhelming adrenaline. Every hit he suffered hurt more, but his focus allowed him to dodge more often and think properly, and he completed the chamber with only a few more scratches added to the ongoing list of wounds.

He was feeling good, confident. Anxious still, because he had never survived this far and had no idea what awaited him behind the next door, but what was the worst that could happen? Death? Ha.

And as he practically skipped into the next room, the toll of a bell stopped him in his tracks, draining all the warmth from his body as the already green chamber flashed an even greater, colder shade of green. Zagreus, although yielding under the sudden chill, still found himself wrapped in a blanket of familiarity, of something so beautiful he couldn’t find the words to describe it. That alone was enough to keep him from freezing to the bone.

“Thanatos…?” He whispered. He hoped. He dreaded. His heartbeat picked up, and his soul tried to rip itself from his body, drawn to the figure zapping into existence right in front of him. For a split second, wings encased Death’s godly form, dissolving as soon it appeared. A detail that was hardly noticeable, but Zagreus noticed it everytime and wished it lasted longer. He yearned to see those wings again.

“You’re easy to track down,” Than said, in a voice that was soft yet piercing, the pronunciation of every word perfect and clear. It caught Zagreus’ immediate attention, keeping his feet planted where they were. He smiled; he couldn’t help it.

“Aw, you were looking for me?”

And there it was: the slight downward twitch of his lips, the furrow of his brows, and of course, the subtle scrunch of his nose. Teasing Than was the best.

“No,” was Than’s indignant answer, and Zagreus of course didn’t believe him. “It was simply an observation of the debris you’ve left behind. I just happened to be in the area.”

“And you also just so happened to follow the trail, knowing it would lead to me?”

“No—! Ugh.” Flustered, lovingly so, Thanatos wielded his scythe. “Fight or die, Zagreus. Or, perhaps, do nothing, while I do all the work. Like how it's always been.”

Zagreus smirked. Well, he definitely wouldn’t mind sitting back and watching Death annihilate Elysium’s best warriors. He knew the god would make swift work of them. But to miss the opportunity to fight alongside the God of Death? Why, how could he decline such an offer?

Before the first shade could even materialize, Zag was on them, hacking and slashing like his body didn’t scream for him to follow Than’s advice. It was exhilarating, exciting. They worked as a team rather than competitors, Zagreus even pushing enemies into Thanatos’ dark circle of death. Than took notice, stopping to give Zagreus a confused look, before disintegrating three Brightswords at once.

Beautiful. Beautiful.

A few more Brightswords materialized, including a Greatshield and some Chariots, but they met their demise quickly before they could so much as breathe. Not that they needed to breathe; they were dead.

And now you’re deader, Zagreus mused, finishing off the last one while Than, ironically, floated and watched him do the work, perhaps giving him a pity kill. Zagreus didn’t keep track of their last competition and he wasn’t about to now; he’d let Thanatos worry about that. Though, he could estimate that he himself killed about five, while Thanatos...more than that, probably?

With the last warrior slayed, Elysium was quiet and peaceful once more, as Zagreus imagined it would be if he was sentenced to live his eternal life here. He took this opportunity to gather and absorb the dark energy a few enemies dropped, thinking about Nyx’s gift when he felt eyes watching him.

Goosebumps riddling his skin, he turned towards Thanatos, who continued staring a moment longer before offering his hand. Zagreus, confused, tilted his head and waited for an explanation. Upon receiving nothing except for Than’s unreadable expression, he took the invitation and shuffled closer.

“Your reward,” Thanatos mumbled, yet it was clear as day. Energy popped in his upturned palm, the remnants clinging to Zagreus’ skin and melting into the tissue, the bones. Zagreus watched a few scratches heal themselves. His body still ached, but his vitality grew stronger, like he could withstand more.

“Centaur heart,” Zagreus muttered, and he tilted his head back, traveling up Than’s floating form before stopping at a pair of two golden orbs. “Why?”

“It was a tie.”

“Oh.”

Zagreus was suspicious, but he didn’t speak on it. If Thanatos wanted him to stay home, like everyone else apparently, then he wouldn’t have given him something to keep his body going unless it was well-earned. Death was honorable like that.

“Ah,” Than cleared his throat, and standing this close Zagreus could see the beginnings of discoloration dusted across his cheeks. “My brother—Hypnos, that is—gave me a bottle of Nectar a little bit ago.”

Zagreus didn’t react to the random statement at first. He wondered why Thanatos was telling him, but also, how Hypnos could have gotten another bottle himself. The God of Sleep didn’t travel nearly as much as his older twin, or even Zagreus for that matter. Though, Zag supposed maybe he didn’t really know where Hypnos went when he wasn’t dozing off by the entrance to the River Styx. He always assumed the god was off sleeping somewhere more comfortably. Or maybe—

Wait. Zagreus frowned. He sensed something was amiss; something wasn’t right. The bottle, the one he gave Hypnos just before his most recent escape...he wouldn’t...couldn’t have…?

His eyes widened. No. Nonono—

“He said it was from you, Zagreus. That you asked he give it to me...as a gift.”

For the second time that day—or night, whatever—Zagreus found himself sputtering with disbelief. Irritation, embarrassment, anger, betrayal, amongst other feelings he refused to acknowledge—he couldn’t sort out which ones he felt the most.

“That—” he tried, but the words were locked in his throat, clogged together so he could hardly talk, hardly breathe. How dare Hypnos give away a gift Zagreus had given him. And how dare he thus give that same gift to Thanatos, lying in his name on top of it all!

“Zag?”

The nickname made Zagreus flinch and want to wilt away, perhaps turn into a butterfly and hide in Than’s chiton forever. At least until Than eventually ran into Hypnos, where Zagreus would then use the element of surprise to strangle the sleepy god. But to hear Than call him by his childhood nickname rather than cruelly addressing him as ‘Zagreus’ enveloped the Prince with so much nostalgia and belonging it ached. What was the point of rewarding Zagreus a centaur heart if he was only going to wound him like this moments after?!

“I...Than.” The exchange of nicknames felt natural, but Zagreus was ashamed. It was enough to zap him out of his momentary panic, and he briefly locked eyes with Death before taking in not only the concerned tilt of his brow, but also the specks of flustered gold alighting his face. Than was...flattered, to say the least. Zagreus wasn’t so oblivious he couldn’t figure out that much. But it wasn’t because of his doing; not really. He could go along with it, pretend that it was, but. That wasn’t right. Death should be honored. This was not honorable.

Upon the sigh Zagreus released from his emotionally-constricted lungs were everything he had managed to feel in less than a second after the reveal of Hypnos’ betrayal. Whatever the reason for it, Zagreus wouldn’t accept the benefits of it, if any. He wouldn’t accept the outcome if it wasn’t truthful.

“Thanatos,” he began, the name not as sweet on his tongue, “That gift...was for Hypnos, not you. I never asked him to hand it off to you.”

The look on Than’s face was hard to read at first—perhaps a mixture of confusion and horror—but Zagreus hated it. Desperately did he wish to replace it with the bashfulness from before. That feeling he had felt earlier, to bask Thanatos in gifts, was back full force.

“You mean to say…” Than’s voice trailed off before his expression hardened. “This is a prank, then.”

“No! Of course not. Not by me, at least.” When Than didn’t look convinced, Zagreus stepped closer, reaching for his dark Chiton but pulling back when he noticed Than’s shoulders stiffen. “I swear, Thanatos, on my father’s name. I gave him the bottle and that was it. Maybe...maybe there was a miscommunication? Or perhaps he overheard—”

He stopped himself there, looking past Thanatos at nothing in particular. Maybe Hypnos overheard his back and forth with Achilles? He was right around the corner, afterall. And if Nyx could hear Hypnos and Zagreus, then Hypnos would have no problem eavesdropping on the happenings of the West Hall. If that’s the case, maybe Hypnos believed he was doing a favor by giving the bottle to its original intent?

“Overheard what, Zagreus?”

With another sigh, Zagreus gave up. “Okay. The Nectar was for you.” Before Thanatos could process the words, Zagreus rushed the next sentences out, fearing the god would think it was all a joke again. “Originally! It was intended for you, at first, but you weren’t at the House. You—you’re rarely at the House, and it’s clear you’ve been avoiding me as of late, so. And the bottle, it was shaken up. I couldn’t just give something like that to you! I wasn’t sure you would even accept a gift from me anyway so I tried to give it to Achilles but he wouldn’t accept it because he said it wasn’t for him even though I was obviously giving it to him and we may have argued about it loud enough for Hypnos to hear but he didn’t say anything about it when—”

Zagreus, whose words were starting to blend together as he quickly rambled his explanation of things, abruptly stopped when something small and hard was thrusted against his chest. He was nearly pushed back from the force of it, and he scrambled to hold onto the object when Thanatos pulled his hand back. Confused, Zagreus stared down at his hands.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

Zagreus had to force himself to look away from what appeared to be a butterfly, mesmerized by the intricate designs he could briefly make out before giving Thanatos his attention once more. He wasn’t looking at him, rather, his head was turned to the side, arms crossed with his scythe cradled between the bulge of his biceps. Dust of gold once again sparkled the soft glow of his cheeks.

“You shouldn’t worry about giving me anything, Zagreus. I’ve no interest in the little souvenirs you find in your futile attempts to escape this place.” Slightly, he cocked his head, fixing his golden stare on the small artefact held gently in Zagreus’ grasp. “But if you insist...you’ll have no choice but to hold onto that.”

A flash of green, a schlink, and Zagreus was alone in Elysium.

Than’s swift exits always left a hole in his chest, but this time he didn’t bother dwelling on it, the weight of the butterfly in his hands keeping his heart full and healthy and...happy. His fingers smoothed over the coolness of it, its subtle ridges and edges a fine testament to the workmanship it must have taken to create something so beautiful. And the colors—shades of purples and grays with a green tint on the outer rims of the design, giving the butterfly a glowing effect—reminded Zagreus so much of Thanatos, and the beauty of Death.

The Prince’s tendency to ramble, although grating to the ears of most in the House of Hades, seems to have avoided what would have been a terrible rift between the likes of Life and Death, courtesy of a telltale lie; but the Prince’s desire to strangle the God of Sleep still stands as is.

Blood trickled to the tips of Zagreus’ ears. “What are you talking—? Ugh, just shut up!”

[i-mybrunettelady]

15 from hurt/comfort prompts for Arson Man my beloved

One Arson man coming right up with a very Achilles like moment also why do these prompts make me wanna write the scenes i've had in my head for a while now yes prompts yes

This may be as good place as any to say that this isn't a fluff fic. It's... a fucked up fic, in a way. So beware of that.

Cw: some gore (very light but still) and injury description

nothing to see here + elandrin

The vines of Cadeyrn's throat are wet and torn. Precision of the cut is unmatched; it's his; he feels it under his fingers just as he feels the sap running against his nails. There are stab wounds, but El couldn't help himself. Green leaves are losing light with progressive speed and he almost wants to close his brother's eyes but he'd be loathe to part from the look of abject surprise at the final loss.

Brother. What a strange word. He doesn't know why he reached for it. Cadeyrn hasn't been his brother since that fateful night in his cabin, but there's something weird coming from it. It's probably the realisation has yet to hit his brain.

His lips curl in a smile. Sticky fingers press against the hilt of his daggers. Pain flashes against his side but there are Morrigu, Caithe and this Vigil crusader Caithe dug out of the ground.

The crusader moves to the corpse. Her breath is heavy and her step light, as light as a chain-mail can allow.

"Let him be," he warns. His voice is filled with unbridled joy. "Let him be, Crusader."

"Last rites, maybe? If sylvari have any?"

"As if a human would be the one distributing them," he says. She frowns and stops just shy of it.

"El," Caithe says. "Alysannyra, we don't have a specific set of rituals like you do. It's more of a what feels right at the moment sentiment."

"What feels right at the moment," El repeats. He feels air gather in his throat, ready to burst. Ashes reach his nostrils from a burnt tree nearby, though the flames have gone out.

And it bursts, in a laughter that is thunder and a forest fire and wind and the angry sea. It's happy, joyful, as if he's shaken off some terrible burden; if Cadeyrn had thought he could simply take El's surrender and just leave him afterwards to deal with the rawness himself, then El can extend the same courtesy and let him look at the prison of his own making in death.

Pain spreads against the cut bark as he kicks the body hardest he can. Then again. Then again. Alysannyra has moved, watching wordlessly.

"Morrigu," she calls out to the Warden. "Shall we get the other Wardens to mop this up?"

"Yes," Morrigu intones and he can't hear them walk away over his own ragged breath but when he and Caithe are alone, his knees give out and he bends over and he's shaking with laughter and pain.

"I won, you fucker," he rasps out, "I won. I killed you. Yeah, wipe that smug grin off your face because I'm alive and you're not, you stupid sack of spice. I wo-"

"I knew this was going to happen," Caithe wraps an arm around him, "as soon as you showed up at Twilight Arbor." She sounds sad and El can't really understand why. "Poor Siona."

"Fuck Siona," he says, "if she cared for her brother she would've returned him to the correct sylvari, but now he's fodder for the plants. She had a chance and she didn't take it. That means I get to kill him."

"At least let me close his eyes," she adds. Her hand is firm and he's distantly aware he'd be floating away somewhere if it wasn't for that.

"I forgot what a mean punch he can land," El whispers, unable to hide his joy still.

"Does it hurt?"

A nod. He wants to curl on the ground. And even as she checks his wounds while the Wardens arrive, he's smiling brightly. Fuck Siona. He'll deal with her later. He now gets to bask in being the one left standing.

[karlnapity]

it’s not worth it, achilles.

(tws: manipulation, emotional & slight physical abuse, panic attacks, one very vague reference to suicidal ideation, agoraphobia)

eret is a watcher.

they’ve never wanted to be at the center of the conflict. content with being off to the side, content with taking what’s given to them.

(but are they?)

they care for wilbur, for tommy, for tubbo, for fundy, for all of them. that isn’t a question. wilbur had welcomed them into his nation with open, welcoming arms, and they accepted graciously and without hesitation.

they can see the gears turning in dream’s head, and they can only see those gears growing sharp with time. it’s not much of a question.

and maybe that has something to do with it, but at the end of the day they can’t quite say what made them accept dream’s invitation to chat.

(it was greed, it was the promise of power, it was cowardice and ambition and desperation all wrapped in a disgusting little bundle that rested in their chest, and maybe still does.)

in any case, they find themselves face to face with the man who should be their worst enemy right now.

they hold themselves poised as they can, and for some reason it makes dream huff what must be a laugh. he settles on a block, gesturing for eret to do the same. they refuse.

“so i have a proposition,” dream starts, adjusting his mask to more thoroughly cover his face. he pauses, and eret raises an eyebrow, waves for him to continue.

“we’re looking for a king to rule the smp,” he says, leaning forward.

“i thought you had george for that,” they say. what is this?

“not for now. later, sure, but i’m not sure he’s ready.” that makes eret frown. it’s an odd way to refer to one’s right-hand man, but at the end of the day it’s not their business.

“you’re asking me to be king?” they ask, hesitant.

“i’m not asking,” dream responds, and something in his tone makes them freeze. they take a step back, almost unwittingly.

“i want you to be king, eret. i think you’d do a banger job,” dream says, standing. as he stalks closer, they clench their fists, silently beg themselves not to show their discomfort.

he stops only a few inches away, crosses his arms far too casually for the situation.

“this is how it’s going to go,” he commands, and suddenly eret is far, far too aware of how this man has commanded men, won wars.

whatever he says… they can’t refuse.

> contrary to what everyone says, they don’t want to be a traitor, but if everyone’s going to think they’re the villain they might as well make it sound good.

the final control room goes perfectly. as they find themselves next to dream on the battlefield, dream’s cold, commanding hand leaving a bruise on their shoulder where he holds it proudly, they don’t feel like much a king, and they feel an awful lot like a slimy traitor.

> it’s not a coronation as much as a condemnation. dream places the crown on their head, and they can’t help but flinch away.

they think they hear sapnap stifle a chuckle, and every nerve in their body constricts in barely contained rage.

dream uses his hand to force eret’s chin up, and they refuse to meet his eyes until he squeezes enough to hurt. he nods, patronizingly, lets go and brushes invisible dust off their shoulders.

they pray for it to be over.   > being a king has always been a figurehead. they hold no power.

dream doesn’t accept anything less than perfect. not in their posture, not in their robes, not in their voice and actions. they do what he says, and they don’t what he doesn’t.

the others hate them, still, and they can’t blame them in the slightest. they’ve barely seen them, not since the final control room, and they can only hope they’ve pulled themselves together, since.

they’re so proud of tommy. but they can’t say that, not hardly, not when dream’s pacing back and forth in the meeting room.

they stand at the door like a guard, only really there as a pretty decoration, and they’re only forced to listen while dream and the others concoct plan after plan to kill the others.

they’re so tired. > they’re more of a target than anything. dream promised them immunity, and they knew it was a lie then; it’s only brought the opposite.

they’re a figure for everyone’s hatred. dream is still acting reasonable in the public eye, for now, and eret is the crazy one. the one who traded their country for kingship, for power that doesn’t exist.

dream doesn’t let them cry, not when he can see it. they’re more thankful for their glasses than ever.

they’ve gotten real good at hiding flinching, too. > dream doesn’t starten to loosen his hold at all until the election. they don’t think he means to, but with other playthings in the form of a president and an exiled man, he doesn’t have as much time to fuck with them.

but he makes one thing very clear:

“don’t leave the castle without my permission, got it?”

they’ve got it. > fundy is the first to visit, and when the first signs of orange appear at the end of the throne room, they almost weep in relief, almost trip on the edge of their cloak before dream’s words snap them back to their senses, telling them not to act undignified. they still can’t help the giddy smile on their face, and fundy looks them hard in the eye before an awkward “hi.”

they return it quietly. > it’s a hard thing, walking the line between trying to apologize and trying not to reveal anything.

(because they can’t tell the others. they can’t.)

they’re pretty sure fundy suspects something, but they can’t say anything.

not even when they flinch whenever someone raises their voice or moves too fast, or how they’re so much quieter than before, or how they staunchly, staunchly refuse to leave the castle unless it’s an event they’ve been invited to.

dream is playing them like a fucking fiddle, and they can’t do anything about it. > niki is the first person they say anything to.

they’re on a parapet, looking out at the stars, and niki rests her head on their shoulder. they smile down at her. they’ve removed their glasses, and the light from their eyes bathes her in gentle light.

“i’m worried for you,” she says, hooking her arm in theirs. they start back a bit.

“what do you mean?” they ask, trying and failing to reclaim the royal disposition they fall back to in situations like this.

“you’re not happy as king,” she says, moving to fully look them in the face.

(they’re uncomfortable. what do they say? what would dream want them to say? what’s safe?)

“i’m fine,” they say. “it’s just stressful, is all.”

she scoffs. “with what work? eret, it’s obvious you’re not in charge. just please, tell me what’s going on. is it dream?”

they feel the urge to lower their voice like he’s listening in, as silly as it is.

(is he?)

their hands are shaking, and they clasp them to hide it. “i can't tell you anything."

and they don’t say anything more, because dream is there, guiding niki out of the castle, and they don’t say anything to stop it. > they hate him. they hate him, they hate him, they hate him, they hate him, and they don’t say anything about it.

they let dream toy with the idea of replacing them with george, they let him threaten their life, they let him say everything he wants to him, and they take it with grace like they know he wants them to do.

they stand in the center of the room as he paces, feeling so utterly exposed. their crown feels heavy, their robes feel like they’re pulling them to the floor, but they stand composed even as they feel like they might lose a life any moment.

they clench their fists to hide how they’re shaking like a leaf, and it does nothing.

he lunges forward, grasps their chin, and they know now to make eye contact immediately. their eyes reflect off his mask.

he tilts their head, inspecting something, and they don’t flinch even as they know he’ll leave bruises on their cheekbones. he pushes them back, and they try not to stumble.

“you’re an embarrassment,” is all he says. “and if you speak to any of them tomorrow, if you even think of leaving the throne room, i’ll kill you right then and there.”

and they don’t doubt it for a second. > fundy tries to get their attention, and as his ears droop and he spits retorts as he leaves and they pretend to continue reading the book and shift uncomfortably on the throne, they feel like crying. dream is just taunting them. > the next day, it’s niki. she stares them down, tells them not to bend this low, and she leaves. they do cry, then, and dream tells them to stop. and they do. > then it’s sapnap, and they don’t know whether they can talk to him as he tells them about his day. their hands curl on their book, and they don’t know where dream is, and they don’t know if sapnap is safe, and everything feels like too much and sapnap is asking them if they’re paying attention, and then they’re ripping the book with their grip and they’re crying and sapnap is asking them if they’re ok and they still don’t know whether he’s safe and they can’t breathe, and they’re on the floor and sapnap is still asking them if they’re ok and they don’t know.

and dream is there, and for once his hold is soft and he strokes their hair and tells them it’s ok, and of course of sapnap is safe, you’re being silly, and how about we call it a day, and they can’t even help but nod in agreement. > dream tells them to take the day off, and they know it’s not kindness, because as they give up on the latch of the door and wonder whether they can make it out of the window, they see a few people congregating near the castle. they can’t quite make out their names, their faces, or even their voices, but they can tell anger when they hear it. something is happening. > and in front of everyone, the next day, as dream stares her down, niki asks them to join her. they lower their head, stare at their lap as dream chuckles. > but they do. dream tells them he’ll kill them. he tells them he’ll kill niki, kill fundy, kill tommy, kill everyone, but it doesn’t matter. he won’t hurt anyone but them, at least not for now, and they don’t fucking care.

let him do as he pleases, they won’t go down easy. anything is better than this.

they rip the crown off their head, throw it down at dream’s feet, and they leave the castle for the first time in months. > niki cheers when she sees them, and they grin, hug her, grab her and swing her around. it doesn’t matter that they’re both in armor, it doesn’t matter that they’re about to go to war against him, they’re there and they’re out and they’re with the people they love.

even if they don’t love them back. they don’t miss tommy’s glare.

(they deserve it.) > they pity george.

they offer their comfort. they don’t get a response.

(not for months, anyways.)   > they retake their mantle, and it’s only a bit easier than before. dream’s control has loosened, but it’s still there, still a looming sense of fear that makes it hard for them to take a full breath.

their friends aren’t there much anymore. fundy is lost in grief, and niki’s doing… whatever she’s doing.

but a new member approaches them oohs and aahs at their castle but approaches them like a person in a way that makes them want to weep.

her name is puffy, and they love her already. > it’s so hard to leave the castle. they still imagine dream popping out from somewhere, telling them to get back inside, and more often than not they don’t make it out of the door. they're loitering in the doorway, fidgeting with their hands when they see puffy. she waves at them, grinning, and they give her a shaky smile back.

“what’s up?” she asks. their chest tightens.

“um. not sure yet,” is all they can muster, and god, dream wouldn’t like that, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

she nods. “cool.”

they stand in silence for a few seconds, and then she extends a hand and says, “i’m on a walk. wanna join me?”

it’s clear what she’s doing, and they grin at her kindness. the looming feeling in their chest dissipates, just a little. they take her hand, and soon enough they’re out from under the shadow of the castle, and they’re in the sunlight.

and it's hard, their hands still shake and they get the urge to run back where it's safe even when it's not, but she distracts them every time their eyes stray and when they sit down in the middle of the prime path and hide their face in their hands and scrub tears a voice tells them they shouldn't be shedding in the first place she sits with them and makes them laugh. > “maybe being king can be something good,” puffy tells them one night.

“you think?” they ask, huffing a laugh. “i’m not sure.”

“yeah,” she says, elbowing them playfully. “you’re in a special position. maybe you can use your influence to help everyone.”

“i don’t have influence,” they start, but she interrupts.

“i know, maybe politically, you don’t. but people respect you. you can use that.”

it’s hard to imagine anyone respecting them, after their cowardice. but as they lean against puffy and stare at the crater, they suppose someone needs to try around here. and they will.

(they push down the voice that says it’s retribution.)

[cuquitalocita]

hi! love your writing and it said you were looking for prompts :) maybe do an emotional hurt/comfort percabeth after tlo?? touch starved annabeth and soft percy are just something that can be so personal

AN: yeah this one hurt and i am... SO sorry

~~

“Alright, Ares! Let’s do this!” Cheers followed Clarisse’s voice as the game of capture the flag began and campers sprinted off in the direction of the forest sporting their bright blue and red helmet. Percy smiled a little, glad that at least some of the campers seemed to be having fun so soon after the war. Chiron and Mr. D had quickly agreed that things needed to go back to normal as soon as possible- Chiron said it would be easier to adjust that way, and Mr. D said he couldn’t handle any more crying campers. Charming, that one. 

“You coming Percy?” one of the younger campers asked as he passed him, and Percy shot him a friendly smile- attempting to not be as intimidating as he knew the younger campers thought he was.

“Sure thing, I’ll be there in a sec. Don’t beat the Ares kids too bad, eh?” The camper laughed and scampered off, his smaller sword clattering against his massive battle armor as he ran. The nostalgia that the sight brought had a lump growing in Percy’s throat that he quickly shoved down.

 Something felt different today- he didn’t know what… but something was off. It didn’t help that the gods had been unusually quiet as of late. And with the new prophecy, he and Annabeth had heard only a few short weeks ago…

Annabeth.

He hadn’t seen his favorite blonde since breakfast this morning, assuming she was back in the Athena cabin doing some more research on Deadalus’s laptop or- knowing her- trying to figure out the new prophecy. 

But it was the end of the day now, the sun was going down over the lake and Percy had yet to see his girlfriend again. He made his way through the camp- empty now that capture the flag had started, only coming to a stop when he heard the unmistakable sound of familiar sniffling. He was in front of the Hermes cabin, one of the places he had been avoiding for the last couple of months, and turned only to see Annabeth Chase sitting on the ground, her knees pulled to her chest and her head turned downwards. 

Percy couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Annabeth cry. Maybe it had been at the end of the war when Luke…

“Annabeth?” Her head shot up in response, the arm that was wrapped around her knees immediately flying to the dagger that lay at her waist. She moved jerkily, so unlike Annabeth that Percy definitely knew something was wrong. But as her gray eyes met his green ones, Percy saw the pure desperation that lay in them. 

“Percy,” she breathed, her voice shaky. “Shouldn’t you be in the woods?” Percy tried for a small smile as he sat down next to her and leaned back on his palms. He felt more than saw Annabeth lean her body slightly towards him as if he were a beacon of safety. Like what she was to him.

“I came back to look for you. Are you okay?” The look Annabeth shot him from behind her curls told him that she very clearly was not okay. He winced a little at the familiar storm in her eyes. “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

Annabeth took a deep breath and when she released it sounded shaky. Percy couldn’t help but put his arm around her, grateful when she leaned in and placed her head on his shoulder. It was weird- the whole touching thing. They had touched as friends before, but things were different now. A good difference, just… strange in a way. 

He tried not to make it obvious how much he was overthinking as he allowed his fingers to twirl one of her sunny curls around in a fidget. 

“It’s his birthday today,” she finally said after a long pause of silence. “Or- it would be. He’d be twenty-one.” Annabeth let out a harsh laugh and Percy tried to ignore the shiver that went down his spine at how cold it sounded. “Twenty-one. Can you imagine? Luke, going to a bar and legally being able to buy a drink. He hated alcohol. But I guess things have changed since then huh?” 

Percy didn’t know what to say. In the years since he had come to camp, not once had they acknowledged Luke’s birthday. And he hadn’t once thought about how Annabeth, Thalia, and Luke may have celebrated when they were younger. Percy pulled her closer and squeezed her shoulder, hoping that he could convey exactly what he was feeling. 

Percy let out a breath. “And then there’s Charlie’s birthday next month. Silena’s present for him is still in the Aphrodite cabin.” 

Faces flashed in Percy’s mind of black hair and strong arms, blue and gold eyes, and eyepatches. Of kids who were just that- kids when their lives were taken from them. When they were ripped away from everything they ever knew. When monsters hunted them until their dying breath. When they grew sick of being overlooked by the very same people who were supposed to be the ones protecting them. When they died for a corrupt cause

Kids. All of them.

“Gods, when did things go so wrong for all of us?” Annabeth was crying again, thick tears streaming down her beautiful face as her body shook with sobs. But Percy was almost crying too now. Crying for his friends, crying for his father, crying for his life. Because he barely had any of it.  

Percy pressed his nose to Annabeth’s hair, hoping she could hear him when he whispered, “I miss them too.” Annabeth had turned her face to his neck and in any other situation, her curls might have tickled him. But as she placed her hand on the small of his back, his Achilles heel, his one weakness, he felt nothing but the familiar comfort that only Annabeth could give him. The same comfort that hadn’t faded since their first day of capture the flag. 

“But… Annabeth,” Percy’s voice was calmer now- steadier. “If we don’t live now, everything they did- everything they sacrificed, will be for nothing.” An image of the younger camper scurrying into the forest, his face alight with hope and excitement flashed through Percy’s mind. “Because Annabeth- we made it. We’re alive. And we’re here.” And he would be damned if he allowed the girl in front of him to give up when she had so much to offer the world. He wasn’t sure the world would even be able to handle an Annabeth Chase. But he was going to make sure he would find out. And thinking about it, he knew Luke would want the same thing. 

Annabeth had taken her head off of his shoulder and was looking up at him, her gray eyes shining with something Percy knew his own eyes were mirroring. 

“Percy I…” But the look on her face was enough. He nodded

“I know. Me too.”

Percy had lost track of the amount of time they had sat there when Annabeth nuzzled her nose close to his neck. It tickled a little and this time Percy allowed himself a small laugh as he heard her inhale. He just hoped he didn’t smell like gross seawater.

“Making sure I don’t stink Wise Girl?” he asked, looking out at the setting sun.

“No,” she replied quietly. “Just… making sure you’re still here.” If possible he hugged her even tighter.

“Hey,” he tried to choke out a laugh as he pressed a kiss to her hair. “What’s Wise Girl without her Seaweed Brain?” 

And he could’ve sworn the earth shook as he whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

~~

um... yeah... hehe :)

[shanastoryteller]

Would you mind writing more about Achilles? Also, a gods and monsters story about Helen would be interesting to see. :) have a nice day!

It hadn’t been a game.

He is seventeen years old, the strongest soldier inhis father’s army, the fastest runner and most skilled archer, and if he’s notquite the best swordsman on the island, well, give him another couple years. Dionis his brother in arms, his dearest friend, and Patroclus had thought theywould live together and die together on the battlefield. He’d thought Dion wasbeautiful and warm and that his hands were the perfect size for Patroclus’sown, if he could ever must the courage to take them.

He is seventeen years old when he’s proven wrong abouteverything he thought he knew.

It’s the middle of the night and he’s walking homefrom a long day of running drills, and then staying later than everyone else towork on his sword dances again and again until he feared his bones would popout of his arms. He’s almost home when he hears a woman scream, and then he’s pushinghis tired limbs to run before he can think better of it. W.hen he finds a manforcing himself on a crying girl in an alleyway he doesn’t think anything aboutpulling him off of her and punching him in the face.

Then it’s Dion looking up at him with a bloody noseand all the air leaves Patroclus’s lungs.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lips numb. Herecognized vaguely that they’re blocking the exit of the alley, that the girlis pulling her torn dress back up and can’t run until they get out of the way,but he can’t bring himself to move.

“What am I doing?” Dion wipes the blood from his face.“What are you doing? What’s your problem?”

He’s incredulous and pissed off and not evenremorseful, isn’t acting like he did anything wrong, and for a moment Patrocluswonders if it’s just a misunderstanding, if he’d interrupted something heshould have left alone, but he looks back at the girl, who’s their age, who’s huddledback against the alley wall with wide, frightened eyes, and knows that it’snot. “I’m telling my father about this.”

“About what?” Dion presses. “What are you so angryabout? You can have her if you want her so badly.”

Rage floods his body chases away any tirednessremaining in his limbs. “You – how could you act like this? You are in myfather’s army, your actions are his actions, and you attack a citizen, and thenpretend it means nothing? I’m telling my father about this, and when he hearsabout it, he’ll kick you from the army and you’ll return home in disgrace!”

Dion gets closer, scowling, and shoves him in thechest. “Are you out of your mind? My father will disinherit me if I get kickedout, don’t play around with me.”

“No one’s playing,” he says darkly, and shoves himback. “You’re pathetic. You don’t belong in my father’s army. If your fatherdenounces you it’ll be the least of what you deserve.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Dion says, and thecoolness of his answer makes Patroclus’s hackles rise, lets him know there’sgoing to be a fight based on his tone alone.

He doesn’t remember who makes the first move after that,but then they’re fighting, properly fighting, not sparring or messing around,and Patroclus is losing. He wouldn’t normally, but he’s been training for hourswhile Dion had left with all the other soldiers, and his friend’s hands arearound his throat and as his vision starts to go dark all he can think is thatperhaps Dion’s hands are not so lovely after all.

Then he can breathe again, and he’s coughing as he rollsover and pushes himself to his knees.

Dion’s blank eyes stare up at him as blood poolsbeneath his head, a bloody rock a few feet away. He looks up a little higher,and the girl is there, shaking with her hands wrapped around herself. “I – I’msorry, he was going to kill you, I didn’t mean – I was just trying to stop him!”

Right. Okay.

“Go,” he says, looking at his dead best friend.

“What?” she repeats, and she holds out her hands likeshe’s going to try and pull him upright, and he flinches. She freezes and deliberatelytakes one step back, away from him.  

“You’ll be killed,” he says, knows vaguely that he shouldprobably be gentler about this but those thoughts seem so far away from himnow. “He’s a general’s son, and they’ll kill you for what you’ve done. They won’tcare what he did to you or me. You have to go.” His father outranks Dion’s, buthe doesn’t think that’ll matter to his either of their fathers.

“I’ll tell the truth, for both of us, okay? Don’tworry about me. Neither of us will be hurt,” she insists.

Her clothes are simple but fine. She might be a lady’sfavorite servant, or maybe even a low ranking noble, but even if she’s someoneimportant enough that she’s right, that still means telling the truth. Thatstill means everyone knowing exactly what Dion had done, and the thought makesacid rise to the back of his throat. “No. I know what he was about to do to you,but no. You already took the man’s life. At least leave him his reputation.”

She swallows, leaning back from him. Before he can tryand apologize, she asks, “But what will you do?”

He’ll take the blame, of course. Otherwise they’ll golooking for Dion’s killer, and they’ll find her. “Go. If you die, then he’sdied for nothing, understand? If you’re both dead, then there was no point toany of this. So you have to live.”

She tries pleading with him, but he doesn’t listen, doesn’tanswer her, and eventually she leaves.

He stays in the street with Dion’s corpse until dawn, untilpeople start to fill the streets. They see him and scream. He’s silent as he’staken in and when he’s questioned he woodenly states that it was because of agame, that it was an accident, because if he says anything else, if they killthat girl for killing Dion, then it was all worthless. And he can’t have that,can’t stand that, even at the cost of his own life, his own reputation, hisfather’s reputation.

His father won’t look at him as he sentences him totwenty years of hard labor. Most people don’t make it past five, but he’s youngand he’s strong, so maybe he has a chance.

Patroclus hopes it kills him long before five years.

But he never makes it there, instead of being cartedoff he’s brought to a palace room in the middle of the night. Inside it is KingPeleus, the ruler of their small land.

“Your majesty,” he says dropping onto his knees andbowing his head. This has even reached his ears? He’ll never be able to bearliving now, with his king thinking he’s a murderer.

“Rise,” his king commands, and he listens, because whatelse can he do.

He notices, standing, just behind him, is the girl.

“This is Princess Polydora,” he says, and Patroclus’seyes widen. He’s heard of his king’s daughter from a different land anddifferent marriage, but he’d never met her, hadn’t known what she looked like. “Shetold me what happened, what you did for her, and what you were willing to sacrificeto protect the memory of your friend.”

“Yes, your majesty,” because he can’t think ofanything else to say.

The king is silent for a long time. “If you’re truly committedto ensuring your friend’s memory remains pure, then I can’t pardon you, and youcan’t show your face here again.”

“I understand,” he says. He doesn’t ask for a pardon.

A smile curls around King Peleus’s lips. “You’re agood man. I have work for you then, if you’ll take it.”

He inclines his head, because of course he will, forthis man who knows the truth and is good enough to offer him a pardon and kindenough not to force him to take it.

“I have a son,” the king announces, and Peleus doesn’thave the energy to be shocked although of course this new is shocking. “He’sunder a dangerous prophecy to befall a terrible fate should he ever become involvedin war, and so when he was born my wife took him and hid him in a far away landso that the Fates could not find him. She hasn’t even told him that he’s aprince. You will go to him, and protect and serve him, for your life is nowhis.”

He’d thought Queen Thetis was dead, but clearly not.

“Yes, your majesty,” he agrees, because going faraway from all of this to serve a prince, dedicating his life to his king’schild, may be the only thing left worth living for.

“Good,” theking says, and leaves without a backwards glance.

Patroclus is left kneeling, confused, and Polydora comesforward and offers him her hand, pulling him to her feet. “My brother’s name isAchilles,” she says, smiling, “and I think you’ll like him.”

gods and monsters series, part xxxii

read more of the gods and monsters series here